


Over Lands

by practice_recklessly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, sansan, the tournament at the eyrie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-11 03:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7873822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/practice_recklessly/pseuds/practice_recklessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor makes his way North with the Brotherhood Without Banners until they are separated at the Twins. He makes his way to Winterfell only to be informed that Sansa has left for the Eyrie. </p><p>Sansa feeling out of place and without control of Winterfell becomes melancholy. After an attempt is made on her life she leaves with sworn knight Brienne of Tarth to the Eyrie in hopes to be protected by the knights of the Vale as promised by Petyr Baelish and Lord Robert of the Vale.</p><p>Sandor stays and swears fealty to Winterfell. Jon receives a suspicious letter from his sister Sansa and believes it a forgery. He charges Sandor to retrieve her from the Vale, unharmed. Sandor Clegane with Podrick Payne and Tormund Giantsbane ride for the Vale to retrieve the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor I

**Author's Note:**

> **Reader Notes:**
> 
>   1. Apologies in advanced but there might be possible canon discrepancies, I have only read "A Game of Thrones" and excerpts but avidly watch the show.
>   2. Using the tournament at the Eyrie, as previewed in a "The Winds of Winter" chapter from an Alayne POV chapter but not in the same circumstance.
>   3. Rough timeline has this after Season 6, I transported Brienne and Podrick before the BWB and Sandor to Winterfell.
>   4. These are in the POV of Sansa and Sandor, look to the chapter titles.
>   5. Sansa is aged up, to what age is up to the reader I leave this open to you.
>   6. The plot summary might change, I haven't really decided yet. You have been warned readers. Even the rating might change if I decide to write some sexy scenes in this fic.
> 

> 
> There are Writer's Notes at the end of the fic. Also, there will be a reference list at the end too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor marches to the North with the Brotherhood Without Banners until they are forced to split up. Travelling through the forest towards Blazewater Bay, he stumbles upon the last hut at the edge of the world.

The pound of boots muffled the pattering of tiny raindrops sheeting the forest of which Sandor marched inside. He can't remember the last time he marched. He done so when he was young, he was a young warrior and no man's squire. He was too agitated and often rebelled against his superiors, until they paid him. Back when he could be bought. When his service was brought to lords the same as that of a street vendor with his only commodities a strong sword arm and a scowl. Sandor was paced with the rest of the brethren flanking him, some on horses, some leading packed donkeys dragging wooden carts. This was a pilgrimage to the shadow of the land, the coming force of nature that would make war with humans whether they willed it or not. Savage and bloodied was the future of the land, would the soil beneath host much more blood or tide over in scarlet mud.

Sandor shook out his hood, it was sagging under the weight of tiny drops of rain water. He looked around and saw cold straight faces, this was the brotherhood of lost souls. They might be without banners but they made a new icon to walk under, the words with no meaning were no better than any family name. What is Clegane if there is no legacy to keep, what is a Brotherhood if they left corrupt lords and ladies only to become corrupt again. Sandor was not sure if they were really meaningful of their words or of their red religion but all he knew was when Beric Dondarrion confirmed the tale of an auburn haired beauty there was no journey South, East, or West. Just North. They had their pledges, Sandor had his.

The sun was setting low, painting the riverlands autumn oranges and reds. Streaks were pulled like ink across the sky, tinting all the tree leaves. Not that they needed help, many had leaves as yellow as the skin of lemons. The clouds were passing and so was the tiny rain drops. Sandor saw the end of the forest, it ended at the beginning of a large field speckled with brown and dark green grasses. A small ditch near the road filled with puddles of rain water with long grass speared through them. Sandor looked ahead and saw a familiar scene, The Twins where he saved the second Stark daughter.

"It will not be easy to cross without the Frey's knowing us." Beric made a quaint statement to Thoros of Myr. The pair were a strange one, former drinking friends of the late king Baratheon. They were charged with slaying the Mountain That Rides for his crimes against the peasant folk. They failed regrettably and never went back. Beric was drenched, Thoros was also thoroughly wet to the bone. Not sure if they should cross and then camp or quietly camp until the dead of night and cross without the Frey confrontation. The men with horses were going to have to cross the Twins but they all couldn't move together.

"There are rumors that the Frey children are fighting over the throne to the fanciest bridge in all of Westeros." Thoros spoke non-chalantly as he stared at the gleaming structure, "We could cross now. The Freys might not even notice if they are fighting amongst themselves."

Sandor was sitting near them, hearing them debate. This is the the kind of talk where Sandor remembers his preference for being alone. More things can be done alone, crossing this river was one of them and heading North was another. Sandor in a different light would have intercepted this negotiation and forced his way through things. Possibly, he would've abandoned them at this point. His previous life, a mindless Hound was as sharp as a piercing spear but as mentally lame as one. Running through anything, unknown if he would live another day. Maybe the risk all soldiers take but a risk they make for a goal. A risk taking soldier with nothing to protect is truly living to die. It was different now, Sandor believed if he was still a spear than what is stronger than an army of them together. One spear alone cannot win wars. He might've been taller than the rest but they still were a band making their way to the wintery North.

The sun fell behind the land and the stars revealed themselves one at a time, decorating the sky above in twinkling wonders. Beric and Thoros had agreed that night would be best. Gave the men a chance to dry off for a time, save their energy and rest. They quietly informed the pack, sending a few scouts to find a shallow part of the river. Sandor looked at the entrance of the Twins, lit with a few torches he could make out a few soldiers. From his distance, they looked like toys, marching the length of the bridge to and fro. Sandor tore his lazing gaze away to stare at the sky above the Twins, the sky was clear that night he went back for the wild wolf Arya.

The wild wolf Arya was short, wild eyed, and all claws. He thought about the last time he saw her and how the look in her eyes gave him little hope that his end would come soon. He remembered begging, he had never begged before. Sandor laid back, he pushed his bag under his head and clasped his hands on his chest. Tears there in his eyes, pain coursing through his body while blood ran out of it. He sighed under the twilight of midnight, the memory of Arya on the mountain was enough to keep Sandor awake. She was gone, maybe dead. _No, not dead, not her._  He closed his eyes, nearing the edge of darkness and fain to sleep.

A familiar sound entered his ear, his eyes jolted open. An arrow near his foot, the band will be broken up by the Freys after all. Sandor jumped to his feet and grabbed his bag and ran along the hillside. He saw other brethren run down, splaying across the dark field. He stopped to look around, Beric and Thoros engaged with a few horsed Frey men. The brothers were running every which way, some through the river and others back into the forest. More arrows came on the hill, sparse and poorly notched. Sandor decided to run for the tree line and head back into the forest. The trees stretched out through to the Blazewater Bay, treacherous to hike but safer than a storm of blades. Sandor leapt and ran full speed into the forest, he was limping as he tried not to upset his lame leg. He felt a man running after him, he turned sharply around a tree and saw a Frey guard lunge at him with his sword. Sandor grabbed his wrist and slammed his arm into a tree making him unhand it. The clang against the roots of a tree was muddled, Sandor picked up the skinny warrior by his neck and pulled him against his chest, he snapped his chin and let loose his soul into the night lands. He looked around and picked up the fallen sword, carefully he examines the guard on the ground. Other than the sword and scabbard, he was without anything at all and far too small for Sandor to take any armor. He crouched down behind the trunk of a tree, he peered out to see if anyone followed behind the unlucky guard. Down below the hill, still more swords clanged. Sandor kept hobbling along, weaving around trees trying very desperately to put more distance behind him. He galloped down as hard as he could the back side of the hill and down through a thicket of bushes.

Sandor kept on, he was wheezing and his leg limping with every step and pulsing with pain. The pain grew and grew, stiffening his thigh until he was barely able to move it. He stumbled on a rocky plateau and he was downed on his knees. It was dark and he could barely see the next step ahead of him. He stopped and lay in the position he fell for a moment, catching his breath. Long hard inhales, sweat beads running down his neck and back. He gasped and tried to swallow, he calmed his body and sat up again. There were no sounds and he saw no light in any particular direction. He was not followed.

Sandor that night walked to the tree line, as best as he could find on the plateau he crashed upon. He covered himself in his cloak and pulled up his hood. He had no water, barely any food, the supply was in the cart led by the stalwart donkey. All he could do was rest and that he did. Night past him, the sun urged him to wake as its sunbeams soaked his hood. He felt the heat and for a moment, stayed in its warmth. It reminded him of summer, a tiny sun beam was his escape to his own mind. The most secret place, tucked away are his twinkling wonders. The terrain he would cross for a touch on the arm. Sandor kept his eyes squeezed, his hands were unmoving and unmoved since waking. His legs felt like stone pillars, they had sunk into the ground. His eyes still closed, his forehead wrinkled at the power of memory making him feel how he felt that night. A flurry of emotions, distilled in his mind. Sandor knew his voice was a blade but a feeling of unknowing, his unrequited longing. He wondered if her words bore any genuine meaning. The Hound would believe she didn't but Sandor believed they did.

Sandor stood, a tear in his cloak, he hadn't even noticed. A tear in his cloak, like how he tore it off in spite of himself. He had to close his mind, no more today. What luxury does he have to dwell in the bittersweet memories of the past. He was alone, in a place unknown to him, with nothing to drink. He must walk, he must survive. A feeling he was becoming more familiar to him. He wonders if it will leave him and hopes it does not.

The light was dancing off the rocky plateau, he saw it was near a cliff side and ran into a small mountain side. Sandor stood still, rubbing his leg he was listening for sounds. He might've lived through the night but the Twins are still there and might still be guards out. Assuming the brothers lost their midnight run.

A light slapping of water, it's faint but Sandor can hear it making the same noise over and over. He started walking around, looking for its source. He made his way following the base of the mountain, it was not very tall and if willed he could cross it in a few hours. He would not have to as he came to an alcove which had a small spring. The spring flowed from the mountain top, down and through the alcove and down through the edge way of the rocky plateau. Sandor drank the ice cold mountain water, he had no skin so he drank as much as he could muster. The cold quenched his thirst but reminded him of the dangers ahead, cold would be his biggest enemy. He looked around seeing if there was anything he could use but the alcove and its counterpart the plateau was seldom visited by man, if at all. Sandor looked out to the tree line and back around to the spring. He was alone and the spring alone with him. He could live here and no one would come looking for him, it was a passing idea and it did pass.

While hiking down a short trail way, he found it ended at a small hut. It was lit and the chimney smoking. It was a modest home, made of stones from the plateau he crossed earlier and mud bricks. There was a woman in the window, she stood smelling an old shirt. She was young, her hair was auburn in a familiar sense. She swayed back and forth in the window, Sandor could see she was alone. He waited for a moment, he wondered if a woman alone would help an individual like himself. He fought against his condition but concluded if she refused that it be the worst that could happen. Sandor, calming his worst intention walked to her door and knocked. The woman answered, she did not open the door.

"Yes, who are you?" she demanded.

"My name is Sandor and I am in need of help." he replied in his best voice, it was very groggy but perhaps it would help his rasp.

"I don't have any gold and there are no riding horses here." she replied loudly, "It would be best if you were on your way, ser."

"I swear I am just starving and in need of drink." Sandor insisted, conveying his need.

There was a long pause, he could hear her fuss under her breath. She opened the door a crack and looked at him. Sandor peered down at her, his hood was up and he was trying not to scare her with his looks. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Take your hood off, I want to see you." she ordered, "If you're hiding I won't feel so kindly to help you."

Sandor hesitated for a moment and pulled down his hood slowly, his hair dishevelled from running all night revealed his glistening scars. She stared at him with judgement but stepped aside and let him in. Sandor felt strange, his rib cage tightened but he still managed to walk inside. She closed the door and glided to her stovetop, there was a pot boiling a stew. A stew of rabbit, corn, and white beans. It had the distinct smell of thyme and pepper, it filled the hut when she lifted the lid from the pot. She started scooping out a bowl and placed it on the table. Sandor was feeling apprehensive, awkward in her presence and in her small home. He stood a giant in her poor house. He sat down and tried not to break anything. The contents of the hut were few but small. She was small and whoever her husband was probably diminutive too. She set a cup of red wine in front of him and she sat with a cup herself. Sandor bowed his head slightly and started to eat.

"Not many visitors around here so the stew is lean, not much in there." she spoke raising the cup to her lips. She was looking at Sandor from the side, she did not face him while sitting at her tiny table.

Sandor swallowed the stew, he sat up and asked her, "What's your name?"

"Ellie." she did not even look at Sandor when she replied, just stared into her cup.

"Are you here alone?"

"Yes. Husband died fighting Iron born. They raid... everything."

There was the missing piece, a husband killed at the hands of raiding men. Sandor guessed they settled here, hoping to make a farm away from society. The hut didn't have much; a window by the bed, a front door and a door to a corn shed. From what he could tell she had to have imported the corn, she couldn't have moved it here by herself so she must have bought it with her husband when he was alive, which means he died fairly recently. Sandor did not like the conclusion of that string of thoughts. She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs she swished her cup of wine. Swirling in her hand, she pursed her lips and lowered her brow.

"Come night, you can sleep in the shed. I have a few extra blankets. It's all I can offer." Ellie said softly as she finished her wine.

"That's very kind of you. I am at your mercy." Sandor replied as he finished the bowl of stew. It was to his liking as far as he could tell.

They sat for a long moment, she was hunched over her empty cup, Sandor tasted the wine. He let it sate his thirst and for a moment it sated something else, the taste of summer. The wine was actually very fine, something that was brought here like the corn. Sandor looked closely at Ellie, she was young and pretty. She had her hair pinned in a fraying bun but her hair stood out brilliantly against her blacken clothes. She was still mourning. That shirt she was smelling, dancing with, was her husband's shirt. Sandor felt as though he should leave her to mourn.

Ellie stood up, breaking the silence. "Wedding wine." she walked away and started pulling out blankets from the wooden chest at the end of the bed. She already knew what he was thinking. Sandor was impressed by her cantor, she was being very open and yet didn't need to say much to convey herself. However, Sandor worried at the idea of trading enemies at the river for enemies from the sea. The plan of walking to the North had become a treacherous one. He was maybe glad that at least this much was not difficult.

Evening came quick, much quicker than Sandor had anticipated. He finished the wine and followed Ellie to the second door at the back of the hut. She showed him to the corn shed and Sandor gave a quiet thanks. The cool air filled the shed completely, Sandor threw down the blankets atop of the crates of corn. He lay and could see his breath floating above him and as it rose and blended into the darkness. The slated walls were letting in slivers of moonlight, it made blurry lines across the adjacent wall. The cold air dangerously tugging him into slumber, into reveries of his making. The night was turning, he could feel a touch on his arm multiplying down his body. The hand was not his, it was soft and slender, and injecting him with guilt. Sandor turned unable to outrun the touch, a white body in a never-ending silk shift. Her red hair flaring out in curls like a fiery sun, they fell on his chest. Sandor was still as she lowered on to him, her chest against his as the weight of life dropped her on his body. Her face was near his, so warm with piercing eyes. Stirring in his chest, he wanted to touch her and started moving his hands up her thighs. Carefully as to not be burned by the hot light, she sat up and stared straight into his soul. Sweat dripping from his temple as she leaned against him, pressing down on his growth, raking his chest with her fingernails. Sandor examined the face of the goddess, he could recognize her face through the worst storms of the world and the brightest light of day. He had no control over the building of his dreams, deep in slumber he let the lady have her way as it was his fervent wish. Her face came down to his and he could see the color of her eyes. Blue, gorgeous, and clear staring back at him. Their lips met, a kiss that warmed the air around him. It lit up the darkness around him.

Morning had come and Sandor lay asleep when he heard a woman scream, shattering the dream he bolted up right. It was coming from the front of the hut. Ellie was screaming, a few men rummaging in her home. He heard a distinct scrape of heels to wood, they were dragging her into the hut. Sandor quietly got up and exited out of the shed from the side away from the hut. He hid behind an overgrown broken fence, he saw a man come out the back door and look around. The man had a salt stained cloak and a kraken emblazoned on his chest plate, eyes black and caught in a dead man's stare. An Iron born nightmare for Ellie. Sandor started creeping back to the hut, keeping low to the ground. He only had the sword he lifted from that Frey guard. He made it to the wall with the window above it. Listening carefully, they were looking for metal and wood. There was not much around there but they will take anything, anyone. Sandor crept to the front of the hut and saw a man standing by the closed door. Ellie screamed again and he knew he must work quickly. Sandor came around the bend running, before the man could draw his sword he had one in his rib cage puncturing his lung. Sandor withdrew and slashed his throat then he entered the hut, another man holding Ellie by the wrists while the other with a dagger was ripping her dress off. The dagger came for Sandor, he dodged the stab and slashed the sword down across the man's legs, as he crashed to the floor Sandor spun the sword and stabbed downward on to the back of the man's neck. He looked at the third man who had let go of the woman and ran for the back door to the shed. Sandor picked up the dagger from the dead man's hand and threw it out the door and into the running man's back. He jumped as it burrowed into his heart before he laid flat on the ground. Ellie was crying and yelling out of shock, Sandor pulled his sword from the neck of the second man and looked at the bloodied blade. A sight he thought he would not see again, as the blood glistened and dripped down on the floor he grabbed the end of his shirt and wiped the redness off his blade.

 _This is not the last time this blade drinks blood,_ he shoved the blade back into its scabbard and picked up the corpses by the collars. He looked back at Ellie, she was clutching her torn clothes closed. She just stared at him, wide eyed and shaking. Sandor knew what she was thinking, he's seen that look before. A monster that kills other monsters doesn't make him less scary. She finally tore her gaze away and clutched her head and knees. Sandor sighed as he exited out the back door, he remembered gutting rapers in an alley and how Sansa Stark made no sound as he slay the men that tried to harm her. She did not scream or cry, she simply looked at him with grateful eyes. For a second in time, Sandor rose to the station that might have him believe he was the knight from the tales he was told as a child. Or at the very least, that time he saved Sansa was when she believed he could be so brave.

And what did he have to show for it now, a counter memory of when he spat on her thanks. Sandor winced as he dragged the limp bodies of the dead to the forest. Sandor had to push those problematic thoughts to the back of his mind, now he had graves to dig and so many days of walking ahead of him.

 

 


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is having trouble finding her place in her home of Winterfell. She becomes melancholy but is revived by a kind gesture. During a riding trip with Podrick Payne, she is attacked by an assassin but saved by the squire. Sansa starts to wonder about her purpose.

The hall was empty, long streams of light from the high windows crossed the middle of the space. It lit up the dust in the air. Just above the beams were the chandeliers, the candles were unlit and in need of replacing. The Lady of Winterfell walked to the head table, she felt the wood of the newest piece of furniture in the room. A chair, finely cut from a dark spruce and ornately carved with patterns that honor the Stark name. Direwolves running on the backing, shapes of trees and leaves, a single rose in the middle of the back. Blue was the rose accompanied by gilded silver thorns and leaves. The lady thought they did not need to use so much time to create a chair for her. She only asked for one beside the Warden's chair, where her brother sat instead of her father or Robb. The new chair was her last grab at control, power was not something she desire as much as she needed. Her safety was her only priority, she had so many enemies.

"Good afternoon, Lady Sansa," a warm voice spoke from behind her, it was Brienne of Tarth, Sansa's sworn knight. She was shiny, she always was to Sansa. Even though her armor was the color of charcoal she still managed to gleam inside it.

"Good afternoon, Brienne. What have you been up to this day?" Sansa replied, courteous as always.

"You're brother was looking for council in his war room. Asking about what the Lannister family might have left up their sleeve." Brienne poignant as ever, "I told him what I could. Podrick and I left King's Landing some time ago and obviously, things have changed."

Sansa remembered when the raven from the Manderlays arrived. They passed on the announcement from King's Landing, the explosion and the long list of the dead. Sansa read in silence as she saw the Tyrell children among the dead she felt as if the world had emptied a little more. Sansa sat and read the announcement with her brother Jon looking on. He had read it prior to her arrival to the study, Jon was concerned. Queen Cersei would not sit on the Iron Throne and not come for Sansa. If there were one or two knights looking for her, there will be triple that in her stead as Queen of the realm. Jon asked for her caution, to stay within the walls of Winterfell until they can fortify the castle better.

That conversation came and went well over a month ago and no one came. There were no would be spies, unknown visitors, just a pair of weary warriors back from the Riverlands. Brienne and Podrick found Winterfell again after a long trip down the Red Fork. Brienne told her their journey from Maidenpool to the White Harbor where they followed the river back up to Winterfell. Cold and without her uncle, the Blackfish. Sansa was grateful they tried and was thankful they were alive and in the safety of Winterfell. Brienne listened to any rumor that was spreading in the East, much was about the new Queen and how the Sept was blown sky high. It made Sansa uneasy to hear of the road stories but a reminder of why to caution was well enough.

Sansa fell back to herself in the now. She was walking with Brienne at her side to the kitchens, checking on the food stock. A cook told her Lord Stark had passed through not an hour previous, checking the stock and stores personally. Sansa quietly sighed and thanked the cook for his hard work. He bowed his head and continued scrubbing pots. She walked to the stables, the horses brushed and fed. There were men sweeping the yard, pushing the snow into carts and dumping them well past twenty yards from the gate. The battlements were manned, the anvil in the armory singing with hammer bells. Sansa moved to the Godswood where she saw the laundresses moving laundry into the hot springs under the castle keep. Everyone was working hard all around Sansa and yet she found herself running over the same treads her brother previously treaded first. Sansa's shoulders tensed, this was her responsibility and birthright and yet her brother was only doing his duty too. Jon was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and like a rasp from the dark, she is reminded that knights don't dote upon high born ladies. They have other duties, monarchy to answer to and Jon was doing well as King of the North. He was always busy, Sansa only saw him at meals and if only most nights at supper. 

Sansa relieved Brienne for the day, stating the day is lost to those more diligent than herself. Brienne had a look of apprehension, she did not want to leave Sansa but did as she was told. Sansa retired to her chambers, feeling her day wasted drowning in her brother's successes. It wasn't supposed to be a competition, they are family and only doing their duty to Winterfell and each other but she felt her purpose being taken from right under her feet. Sansa sat at the table in the solar, and looked longingly out the window. The solar was lit by the setting sun, inside the room was a long rectangular table with a runner down the middle. It had harvest fruits and vegetables stitched into the fabric, a large wooden slat with an emerging direwolf in the centre surrounded by lit candles. There were other chairs the same as the one Sansa sat in, eight in total. A familiar figure walked into the room, a beautiful white wolf with red eyes joined Sansa. Ghost, Jon's direwolf, nuzzled his head onto her lap and she moved a hand to pet his head gently. Her back was to the mantle, a crackling fire underneath creating glinting oranges and reds along the walls. She stared at the white light pushing through the tinted glass, reflecting a faint orange from the flame. Ghost laid down around her chair and she collected her hand back into her lap. Sansa sat with little life in her eyes, she sat stewing in her dark thoughts. The light in the solar could not penetrate through her melancholy today and for that matter the day before, the day before that. It was barely the end of the afternoon and Sansa retired to her bed.

Sansa marched slowly to her chamber, every step was agonizing work. She untied her dress and let it fall to the floor, not even bothering hanging it with her other fine clothes. Pulling the blankets and furs around her, she got cozy in her bed and lay on her side. The light from outside was dying and so was Sansa. She let her mind run, over the good memories but mostly over the bad ones. She tried to think of something nice, anything at all. The courtyard in the Red Keep, always well tended and flourishing with flowers. The hot sun of the South, lemon cakes with the Tyrells, holding hands with Margaery as they talked into many evenings. Sansa shivered, thinking of the sunny South made the room feel colder. Shivering, she thought of a flat blade hitting her thigh. Sansa touched her leg, a very faint scar from a horrific act. She thought there should be a larger scar, the blows she sustained felt larger. The light dying in her room, Sansa hugged herself beneath the covers. Her mind racing and blending landscapes and places, her mind's eye looking out her window in King's Landing when news of Robb's death was announced. The scenery morphing into the shipyard, playing games with the dark haired Shae. Sansa turned in her bed, Shae turned her head away from Sansa and she turned with her. Flinging her mind back into the dark, she found herself against a stone wall with a heavy rasp wildly lashing her ear. Sansa moved her arms, she grabbed her body. _Was she really there or was the dream real,_ she thought as she squeezed her eyes as the shadows stitched into a face descending down on to her lips. The stone wall gave way as it changed into a soft bed. Hot breath on her cheek, Sansa gasped as her hand drifted down her body, the other clutching her belly.  _I'll have that song from you now._  Her skin was blushing rosy, a rough hand on her neck sliding down her skin. Sansa burrowed her head into her pillow, biting the cloth she made vigorous work with her finger. They were slender but strong, tough skinned from sewing all her precious dresses. Precious, certainly something he would say they were. Precious said in all kinds of rasps and meaning; loud and mockingly, quiet and breathy, a hard whisper. Gasping into her pillow, Sansa was covered in a sheen of sweat. Finding her purpose for the day. She breathed hard until she drifted into a sweet relief.

Emerging from her sleep, it was pitch black. Sansa sat up in her bed as moonlight streamed high in the sky. Making short rectangles on the stone floor. The fire was still burning but very low. Sansa pushed the blankets back and placed another log on the fire. It was late, she looked around and saw a covered plate in her room. Walking over to it, she guessed her brother not only took care of the castle keep but her too. She uncovered the plate revealing braised chicken legs, buttered potatoes, and a few carrots steamed whole. Sansa was starving, she dropped the cloth and gave up on feeling sorry for herself. At least for this evening, she had enough. It had only been a few months since the many participants of recovering Winterfell left but finding purpose was a journey she hoped was short. She washed her hands and pulled on a robe. Picking up her dress and smoothing it best she could, laying it on the back of a chair she sat in the other and starting picking at her cold food. As she ate she thought to take up a book, nudging the plate a bit there was a note underneath. Sansa was a bit confused but picked it up.

_Keep your strength up, my lady. Tomorrow is another day to live.  
-Podrick_

Sansa was surprised, the squire Podrick Payne bold enough to leave a note. She smirked, why leave a note. Perhaps he saw something in her, he was not an ugly man but too low born to marry or at least so the realm would say. Sansa found herself smiling, laughing as she fanned herself with the note. She tossed it onto the table. Maybe it's his fierce loyalty to Tyrion Lannister, she was his wife for a time and his fixture in her life was there. He is a good man, he's lucky to still be alive.

Morning came and Sansa felt a bit revitalized by the note Podrick left. She called for him at the stables, she asked him to come riding with him that morning. Podrick came walking up in his red and gold ringed jerkin, he shoulders covered with a large black cloak he smiled at Sansa. She smiled back and thanked him for the letter.

"Good morning, Lady Sansa." He said nervously, "Where would the Lady like to ride to this morning?"

"Just the Wolfwood is fine, I haven't been riding very much and I'd like not to lose the feeling." Sansa replied in her sweetest tones.

They galloped out the front gate, a few men came along but trailed behind as Sansa and Podrick raced out to the woods. Sansa examined the man, he wasn't too tall nor was he particularly muscular. Dark hair kept short, a gentle face, she guessed she was so easy on him now because there isn't anything particularly scary about him. She smiled at her own revelation.

"Glad to see to you smiling, Lady Sansa." Podrick shouted from his horse, he smiled back as he turned to look forward.

"Podrick," she slowed her speed and was riding beside Podrick's horse, "I want to thank you for that note. It was very lovely."

Podrick bore a wide smile, his eyes smiling too. Podrick piped up, "Was doing my duty to you, Lady Sansa. You seemed a bit on the outs yesterday. I hope I did not over step my boundaries."

"Not at all, Podrick." Sansa replied, shaking her head playfully, "It was the nicest surprise in recent memory." She waited to see his reaction, Podrick blushed a bit and looked down into his horse's mane. Sansa giggled and sped up her horse into a gallop. Podrick realizing she was racing away, bucked up his horse to match her speed.

They dashed around in the snow, the horses were getting a feel for the slippery landscape. Trees rushing past, Sansa was not much for riding fast but today she felt like running free. Podrick was having a hard time keeping up with her. Sansa was told he was not much for horse riding either but she didn't realize it was this poor. Sansa slowed down, she had almost lost the squire who was just getting over a long hill she past. She dismounted her horse and held the reins. It shook its tail, long and black and Sansa led it to a large tree. She tied the reins to one of the low hanging branches to look at the forest floor. There was so much snow, untouched mostly. A few rabbit tracks, a few she didn't recognize, and a few that looked like a lone man came through this way. For whatever reason, she made up that he must've been a woodsman chopping wood for his home. Sansa looked back to the hill she lost Podrick at, he was still travelling over it. She laughed, she enjoyed his company. It was warm and friendly, almost brotherly. Her horse brayed quietly but Sansa was still staring out at Podrick who finally made the valley and was coming back up the other hill. They were long and wide but she didn't mind waiting. His horse was trying to respond to his touch, he had the reins in his hands but alas the creature willed the rider to do it his way. Sansa wondered if she was ever this bad at riding horses, perhaps when she was very young but to have a horse was privilege enough. She promised herself not to laugh at Podrick when he made it up the hill.

Her horse started braying louder and a sudden snap came from behind Sansa. She turned around quickly and saw a man walking towards her. He had a long dirty cloak over his person, hiding his hands and face. He crept toward her, each step crunching loudly under his feet. Sansa wide eyed and stiff, she starting backing up into the clearing hoping Podrick would see her. The snow was high, all the way up her boot and nearly at her knees. Perhaps this was not a good idea. Sansa pushed open her cloak, using her arms to wade the newly fallen snow. The man walked faster, he unsheathed his sword.

"Doubt that man will get here in time m'lady." he gritted through his yellow teeth, "the reward for you is a high one, dead or alive. Not much of a fight on my way South if you're dead." the man hacked at her with his short sword.

Sansa leapt out of the way, she screamed as she was sent scrambling. She got to her feet and started a run but her dress and cloak were dragging in the soft snow, clinging to the fabric and weighing her down. The man behind her having just as much trouble trying to keep up, she struggled down the hill. The wind had moved the snow into statuesque waves on the sides of the hill. Sansa untied her cloak and was trying to bunch up her skirt to free her legs but she tumbled into the snow bank. The dirty man caught her wrist and she screamed again, he wretches his sword high over her head and grins. Sansa puts her hand out in hopes it would be enough to stop the blade but she is sprayed with hot blood as Podrick slams his axe into the man's chest. Podrick had dismounted his horse and ran up the hill himself. He was smart, he ran along the harden wave of snow, the wave made hard by the winds. Sansa panicking as the warm blood was dripping down her arms and face. Droplets of blood stained the snow, she saw each spot spread as it hit the ground. The would be assassin dropped into the bank with Podrick's axe still in his chest. Podrick huffs for a moment and looks around him, he looks down at Sansa who still had her arms up above her. Podrick picks her up gently and Sansa grabs on to his arms. Clawing at his arms she starts crying into his shoulder.

And for a moment, he let her weep. Two people in the middle of a white field, speckled by thick pines and ink brushed poplars. Podrick slides a hand under the backs of her knees and quickly walks away from the corpse. He struggles to find good footing but it doesn't bother Sansa one bit. He sets her on his horse at the bottom of the long hill and then mounts the creature himself. They ride quickly towards the rest of the Stark men. Podrick rides the best he can back to the safety of Winterfell. Sansa was holding on to Pod's chest, she lay her head on his back as he rode. If she wanted. she could wrap her arms around his chest and her hands would meet around him. She gripped his cloak and cried, he was clumsy and well meaning but she wanted ferocity. She was thankful but she wished she never seen the assassin at all. She didn't want to clasp her hands around Pod, she wanted to feel a large fierce knight in her arms. Someone that could protect her but also intimidate their opponents. The streams of trees and snow passed as she looked through her tears. Podrick's back was warm but not nearly warm enough. Another day wasted, all she wanted was a to start building nice memories of home again. Like how she used to live her. _I guess nothing will ever be the same._

They arrived at the main gate and Sansa realized she did not have her cloak, her fingers were freezing. She was met by Tormund who was talking with the guards at the gate. He was dressed in his usual furs and leathers, but when he saw Sansa he went to her side immediately.

"Girl, where is your cloak?" Tormund asked as he pulled off his gloves and put them on Sansa's hands. He then took her arm and guided her into the corridor where there was a lit brazier. Tormund was not familiar with high born people and their practices, some would see his actions as an infraction on her station but she knew better than to accuse him of his actions. He was concerned and a friend, an loyal ally to her brother. Sansa was still well mannered around him, she noticed that it was mirrored back as best as he could interpret which she found refreshing. Tormund took off his fur jacket and laid it on Sansa's shoulder. It was warm, very warm. It's not a wonder that the free folk prefer fur jackets and robes to cloaks and jerkins. Sansa thanked Tormund, she squeezed his hand in affection. He was looking at her, particularly her face. She had a look of concern, her eyes were still puffy and red. 

"You're going to need to bathe." Tormund said bluntly, "Who do I ask to bring you a bath?"

Sansa gave a meek smile and told him to ask the kitchen staff as they know where the tub is stored. Tormund nodded his head and left for the kitchen. As he walked away, she noticed how much smaller he was when he wasn't in his furs. He was still muscled well, but the difference was jarring. _There must be more than a dozen furs in this jacket._ Sansa pulled off his gloves revealing the arm that was soaked in blood. She started shaking again, just the sight of it was making her sick. Tears welled in her eyes, a bile taste filled the back of her throat, the blood had smeared on Tormund's glove. She felt guilty and trembled, he put them on her but she had soiled them. Her breathing was irregular and hitched, Podrick went over to her after the armed guards came back with her horse and cloak. Before Podrick could say anything, Sansa spoke first.

"Thank you Podrick, you saved my life." Sansa mumbled, anything to stop thinking about her drenched arm.

Podrick with a look of worry replied, "I'm here to protect you, even since King's Landing. No need to thank me, Lady Sansa. It was my duty, always."

Even his reply was polite. He didn't scold her for riding ahead, he didn't have a witty remark or jape at the expense of the situation. He is a good man and yet she did not see sparks of any kind. Just a man, serving. She stared at him, he barely made eye contact with her afterwards, his sight on the people around them. Sansa sighed and looked back at the brazier, hoping the fire would consume her fears.

Another day wasted, Sansa soon found familiar cast around her. Concern and worry as people tended to her, a worried brother and a stiff knight whirling around her. She felt like she was a waste of all their time. Her head heavy with thoughts and guilt, Sansa found herself in her chamber again. She sat in a warm bath, hugging her knees and resting her forehead on them. Done with tears and bemoaning, Sansa wanted to return to a life that didn't involve feeling caged be it forced or self-inflicted. Though that was her life, so long as a Lannister sat on the Iron Throne her everyday would be cut short by that fact. She would have to waste precious moments of her time on the wicked Lannister family for a crime she didn't commit. _Precious,_ she thought in another's voice. It was a faint scrape of metal on stone. Sansa sighed,  _If only I could stop wasting my time on another._ Sansa sank back into the water and let the silence envelope her.

 


	3. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes to a letter from old acquaintances, Lord Baelish and Lord Protector Robert Arryn. They are offering her protection in the form of an invite to stay at the Eyrie.

Barely a fortnight had past when a rider from the Eyrie arrived at the gates of Winterfell. He had a message for the Stark children. Jon reluctantly brought it to Sansa's chamber, he sat in a chair beside the bed where Sansa lay unmoving. She was on her side, looking very small. Jon looked at her with concern, it lay heavy in his brow and jaw. Sansa was facing her brother, she was neutral in emotion but inside her lungs it felt like they were stuck in a wind storm. Jon put the letter on top of the night stand. The letter was sealed by navy blue wax bearing the seal of a mockingbird, Littlefinger's own symbol. Jon shuffled the chair closer to Sansa, he gathered one of her hands in his and squeezed.

"I thought it only appropriate we read it together." Jon smiled weakly, "The rider said it was for both of us but really meant for you. I don't know what kind of game Lord Baelish wants to play but we don't have to be apart of it."

Sansa was still, she squeezed his hand back and sat up. Jon pulled a robe from the back of his chair and handed it to Sansa. She put it on and looked at the letter. To trust a man fully like Petyr Baelish meant you might lose your head, Littlefinger had wronged her but he held much more power over them. She was thankful that he came with the knights and that he handed over the claim of the North to Sansa but it was all a show in power. Sansa was not fully prepared to moved past every indiscretion but not wanting to lose to the Lannisters, the need was outweighing the want. Sansa stared at the letter and paused to think of what the play was here. Would he ask for her hand again? Would she have to marry Sweetrobin to step above him? Why was everyone trying to marry Sansa despite the large bounty on her head. So many possible threads to follow, not a single stitch to the pattern making any sense. Sighing, she took the letter in her lap and pulled back the wax to reveal a very short message inside. It was in Petyr's hand, he had a very distinct ligature over some letters that Sansa remembered. Jon looked at her, Sansa looked back and repeated the words.

_News has travelled to the Eyrie. I am offering the protection of the Vale to Lady Sansa Stark. The castle is impregnable and we have the largest standing army in the seven kingdoms. Lord Protector Robert will send a battalion of knights to escort Lady Sansa to the Vale if she so wants it. Reply soon.  
\- Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale_

Jon fell back into the chair. It was obvious he was a bit hurt by Petyr's offer. Jon was doing all he could to rebuild Winterfell and protect her but it would seem even a folly like the single assassin was enough to make waves in the North. Sansa saw the anguish as he looked back down at the letter. He took the letter and read it again. Sansa wanted to know what he was thinking, his silence was making her uncomfortable.

"I don't have a purpose here." Sansa spoke bluntly about her status at Winterfell, "At least, I don't have one right now."

"Don't say something so heinous, Sansa." Jon defended, "You are needed here, you are a great symbol of survival and people love you here. People look up to you. Winterfell is your home. You belong here."

"I can't have more blood spraying over the snows of the North for my sake. We are under manned, we don't have enough food for every person here. We need help." Sansa unburdening her sadness to her brother, "If I leave, we can broker more help from the East. I know how to do that. I can be that tool."

"You are not a tool, you are not to be used. I will not negotiate your life like a commodity." Jon grasped both her hands, "Don't think of yourself in that way. You are more than that Sansa."

Sansa staring at Jon's eyes, he was heartfelt and truly saddened by her words. She felt her eyes blur as she blinked tears down her face. She smiled sweetly, she was regaining her courtesy.

"I don't recall them calling me their Queen." Sansa explained as she stroked his hand, "The people of the North called you the White Wolf, the King of the North. They are going to follow you and... they will love you."

"I am a bastard." Jon struggled to speak.

"They don't care." Sansa said firmly with love.

Jon held on to her hands for a long moment, he was looking away as he took in all Sansa's words. She held his hands and watched his face destress and calm down. He turned back and stood, he planted a kiss on her temple. Sansa closed her eyes when his lips touched her head, she was finding her footing again. Her ability to read people, raise them up when they needed to hear the truth, it has been her strength. Jon released her hands and stood, he gathered the letter and threw it in the fire. He gulped as he watched the letter burn into ash and soot. He sighed and turned for the door, he paused and looked at Sansa.

"I didn't want to be King." Jon said bluntly, he smirked, "It's duty and honor but it weighs on my heart, you should be Queen of the North."

"But, I'm not." Sansa half smiled, so very true her words and so very hurtful.

"What would you have me write Lord Baelish?" Jon asked coolly.

Sansa took a moment to breathe, she spent so much time trying to come back home that leaving was all to easy a decision to make, "Tell him I will take Lord Robert's offer and I will accept the protection of the Vale."

Jon nodded and smiled, he was about the close the door when Sansa shouted, "And tell him I am bringing Brienne of Tarth."

Jon just a sliver in the doorway nodded again and closed the door. Sansa blushed a bit as she heard his footsteps fade into the wall. It had been a long time since she felt sibling love, that reply would've been in the same tone of voice she would have used when she spoke to Arya or Bran. Unconditional love for her long gone siblings, the thought of her younger kin still missing struck a pang of sadness in Sansa's heart. The feeling of family made Winterfell whole in her mind, she had one brother here and building back to the status of family and sibling love was not an easy task. For now, all she could do was wait until their enemies quieted or failed in their own way. Sansa looked down at her hands, she noticed a few small bruises yellowing from when the assassin yanked her arm. They were healing. She mimed the way he must have gripped her wrist, she thought about those who would be desperate enough to travel this far North to slay the false poisoner. She retreated those thoughts as Sansa covered her arm with her sleeve, curling her arm up against her chest. She wanted to stay in Winterfell until she grew old and died but there were so many forces already moving to undo her and her family. Too many for Jon to deal with. Too many for her to out maneuver. She was a game player with only a few pieces to play with, not like Littlefinger and the Vale knights, not like Cersei and her crown jewels. Sansa wished for a protector, she wished Lady was laying on her bed. She should've been at her side, not laying in the crypts of Winterfell.

In the coming days, Sansa said her farewells to the Winterfell castle. The Vale Knights arrived within a week of Jon sending a letter back with the rider. Almost as if they anticipated Sansa's reply. She laid pine bundles and candles in the crypts, she hugged Tormund although he couldn't tear his eyes away from Brienne. Jon and Sansa hugged for a long time, they were more stricken than most. It was a long battle to reunite siblings but not even a year went past and she was leaving again. When they parted, Jon took a moment to gather himself again as did Sansa. Next was Podrick whom she asked to stay behind and train with her brother. It was written on his face that he didn't want to but Brienne also thought this a good idea. He agreed but said the moment he was ready, he would ride out to the Vale. Sansa managed her time well enough to sew Podrick a new cloak. Her dress was ruined by the assassin's blood and wondered if Podrick's cloak was ruined as well. It was ironic Sansa chose a wine red, nearing brown for the fabric like how blood would stain a cloth. She gave it to him as they mounted a caravan to the Vale. Podrick blushed profusely and swung it around his shoulders. The red brown cloth matched his blood red jerkin. He stood a bit more proud, taller some how, she had sewn his axe over a yellow coin on the front of the cloak. Sansa smiled back as she closed the window to the caravan. Brienne couldn't shut her window fast enough as Tormund stared at her with lustful eyes. Sansa covered her mouth as she started to laugh. Brienne shook her head and ignored her and everything else.

The road was bumpy and often stretched time so long, Sansa felt as though the trip was taking months to conduct. The landscape was hilly, there were trees in the way of the longview and often not worth opening one's window. It was also too risky, some of the knights insisted the windows stay closed until they had passed a few checkpoints. Sleeping in a caravan was worse, it was constantly moving. They only rested a few hours at night and the knights would get up early and start off again. No wonder they were in Winterfell by a weeks end, if they rode this hard they could transport themselves anywhere in the known realm. Soon they were on a familiar road through the mountains. Brienne was looking out the window, her eyes looked glazed over in deep thought. Sansa wondered what memories were racing through her mind. She thought to take a chance and ask her. Not like the caravan was entertaining in any way.

"What weighs on your mind Brienne. You are looking with intent out the window." Sansa asked her straight.

"There." Brienne pointed out the window, "I felled the man harboring your young sister Arya. Right there." she pointed sternly out the window.

Sansa surprised, she opened her window and peered out. It was a rocky cliffside, speckled green with small shrubs and grasses. The rocks were dark colored, nearly black and the plateaus were rocky. Everything about the peaks felt like they were sharp and unrefined. She could not see the bottom of the sheer hill, it was surrounded tightly by other sheer hills. Curious to ask how this all happened, Brienne started into her story before she could even speak a word.

"Harboring might be too harsh a word, it would seem your sister did not want to leave the warrior." Brienne explained still looking out the window as if it happened yesterday, "He was fierce, very large, and he could swing a sword that could send my wrists ringing. From the way he was defending your sister, at the time it seemed like he didn't want to leave her...  Toughest man I've ever fought. I couldn't beat him with my sword, he ended up falling off a cliff. I didn't even look to see where he landed, I was just concerned about finding your sister that it hadn't even occurred to me to look. It seems quite cruel to think about it now, beat a man near death and you don't even confirm of he had died."

Sansa paused, Brienne still looking at the cliff's edge. Sansa quietly asked, "What was his name, what did he look like?"

"I can't say, I don't remember. He was big though, bigger than me. Long hair, burned." Brienne let her voice go soft, "Podrick said his name but I can't remember. Sellers? Carter? You can ask him in a raven, surely he would be all too happy to reply back."

 _Big and burned, it's all too coincidental._ Sansa thought.

The cliff came and went, it became eclipsed by large mountains as the caravan made a turn into the High Road for the Bloody Gate. It was bumpy and they arrived at the massive stone structure without conflict from tribes men. At the gate, Sansa and Brienne were taken by the Knights of the Vale up the long climb to the halls of the Eyrie. So many stairs and stones, Sansa made each trip desperately wanting to stop but the Knights kept pushing on. She curtsied and climbed. Brienne was huffing behind her, Sansa felt terrible for she was still in her armor after so long on the road. She stayed in her armor as a preemptive move against any assailants stupid enough to attack the caravan. By the time they made it to the second waycastle, Brienne had only shed her heavy winter cloak. She was sweating but the cold wind cooled Brienne to the core. Sansa was trying very hard not to look weak, being courteous and charming. Many Knights were very lovely in return, she tried to make mental notes but even her mind was screaming for rest. They made it to the last bridge, Sansa took her cloak off so the wind would not catch it as she made the walk over the Sky bridge. The night was overhead, it was a clear sky and the wind was strong. Brienne went first and waited, her hand out if Sansa needed it. She was slow but sure footed enough to make the walk for the second time in her life. Shivering on the other side, Brienne wrapped Sansa's cloak around her shoulders. Sweet relief even though the cloth was cold. Any shield against the biting wind was welcomed.

Inside the Crescent Chamber, Sansa and Brienne stood near a fire place. Their hands numb from the wind, a familiar silhouette appeared. Petyr Baelish arrived with a few Knights at his side, he was dressed in a midnight blue doublet that nearly swept the floor a belt across his waist, accessorized with a silver pin of a mockingbird flying across a crescent moon at the neck. He approached with all the grace he could imitate. A bow to Brienne and a kiss on the hand for Sansa, she barely felt it because of the cold, her skin still so numb but she thought that was for the best. Feeling nothing and showing nothing was a state of mind Sansa knew too well.

"Come, Lady Sansa and Lady Brienne. It's a long journey and you should make yourself at home in the Maiden's Tower." Petyr corralling Sansa into his arm, Brienne looked upon him with much suspicion, perturbed that he called her a lady. Everyone in Winterfell knew Brienne's predisposition on the term.

"Where is Sweetrobin?" Sansa asked for the small lordling, "I have not seen him in so long, he must be bigger now." She gathered her skirts as they climb the stairs to the upper chambers of Maiden Tower.

"He sleeps, far to late to cart him around a cold castle." Petyr replied holding Sansa's shoulders, never moving his hands in an uncouth manner, "But never mind the little lord, you and Lady Brienne should get some rest. It's late and you can greet the Lord Protector in the morning."

Sansa caught a glimpse of Petyr through the columns of moonlight on their way to the Tower, he was staring right at her. Was it her face? The picture in his mind involves her, Sansa rejected him and hoped he would be less forward. Now he is maybe, more forward. The top of the stairs could not come any faster. As they stepped up the long stairs, Petyr insistent on holding Sansa until they reached the top. It was lit softly with candles, there was handmaids holding the door open. Sansa bid him goodnight and left through to the many chambers of the Maiden Tower. Brienne gave him a stare and proceeded right after. Sansa shook her shoulders as she hugged herself. Rubbing her shoulders, it was an awkward walk up to the tower. The pair followed after the maid, she had a lit candle and was taking them to their personal chambers. Brienne was just as riled, she turned to Sansa with a look of annoyance.

"Be careful around him, he is not to be trusted around you." Brienne gritting her teeth, "He is too bold when he ought to stay seated."

Sansa touched Brienne's arm, "He is concerned about my well being, he was my Mother's childhood friend. It would be best not to speak anymore of his intention, not while we're here. This is his home and there are spies."

Brienne nodded, "Excuse me, my Lady. I didn't mean to talk out of turn. It's just..."

"Brienne, you don't have to explain yourself to me. I know." Sansa assured her, holding tight her arm demonstrating her trust, "He might be slipperier than a fish." Brienne smirked at Sansa's remark.

The maid brought them to the last rooms of the corridor, Sansa stood at the door of one chamber and Brienne at the door of another. She bid Brienne a good night and stepped inside. The chamber was a modest size, it was the closest to the solar above. The maid had already brought hot water upstairs and a platter of food. Sansa relieved her and she bowed graciously as she left the room. The room had a small hearth at the foot of the bed, on one side a wardrobe nearly as high as the ceiling, a vanity lit with candles on the other side. The four poster bed was a nice touch, it had inlaid gold and silver vines and birds. Sansa immediately took her boots off. She let the soles of her feet touch the cold stone floor. She let out a groan of pain, walking all the stairs with barely a rest was enough to break even the fittest man. Her feet creaked as she stretched and bent her toes, there was camaraderie with her knight. Sansa knew Brienne was not going to falter in the presence of other knights. She could not break, so Sansa didn't either. Sansa wobbled and sat by the fire and examined her feet. Blisters on the heel, sore and puffy. A small price to pay for her sworn knight's loyalty and friendship, it was more important now than ever.

That look Petyr gave, it was making Sansa uneasy. As she stared off into a shadow, she started untying her dress, her mind was racing to find conclusions but her body was shutting down. Sansa only enough energy to preserve her dress on a hook as she lie in bed. Cocooning herself in blankets she tried to think of eyes she did like. Robb's were always clear and sharp, in fact all her brothers eyes were dear. Father's eyes were always tired, not so nearly a nice memory as an accurate one. She turned and tried again. Arya, eyes like a wolf. She could see through anyone's schemes, truth teller even if it got her into trouble. Jon, deep dark eyes always thinking of others and barely of himself. Sansa thought to send a raven tomorrow. _He's probably worrying like how Father worried._ Was there no eyes she thought more of, she turned again trying not to think of a certain recluse warrior.

Sansa sighed, she was trying to think again but slipped into dreams. It was late and the darkness was her clutching eye lids closed. The dreams were harrowing, she felt like she was falling, it was cold and dark but she fell. Sansa thought she would surely hit the ground and die, just like her Aunt. Tears streaming from her eyes she felt a sudden stop. She was in the arms of a large figure, soot stained in her reverie. He walked among the woods of Winterfell, the snow glimmering sunlight. She felt his warmth, his strength, where were they going if they are North. Back to Winterfell? He was still clouded as he carried her, Sansa rubbed her eyes but no matter how much light surrounded them his face would not be lit. All that would light was rivers of red and pink pocked flesh, Sansa reached out to touch the color but fell out of slumber. Her hand outstretched in front of her, she knew that scar, that flesh. _But he left me, he's probably died._ Sansa pulled her arm back and under the blanket. _Or far away from Lannister reach._  She lay on her back as she stared up into the morning light breaking through her curtain, she lay unmoving thinking of the path not taken.

 


	4. Sandor II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor leaves Ellie and proceeds to Winterfell. He is faced with many second chances but turns them away and continues North. At Winterfell, he must defend himself for Sansa is no longer there.

There was dirt under his fingernails, something he noticed when he wiped his hands against a tree trunk. They were caked with soft mud from digging deep and burying the men of the Iron below. Sandor pounded the dirt flat with his foot, raking a few rocks across the upturned soil. Many hours had past since he took them out to pasture, he walked back to the hut and saw the back door still open. He approached with caution, dropping the spade near the back he peered inside. He saw Ellie, she had finally pulled herself together. She was wearing a lavender dress, she had ripped lengths of linen to cover her bruised wrists. She was cooking, as she turned to set a table she looked up at Sandor. Her face was still puffy and red, she nodded and motioned him to come inside.

"I, well I don't know how to say my thanks so thank you." her voice slow and rough, "I made dinner and I suppose you will be leaving to wherever your going. I can pack you some food. It's what I can do for you."

Sandor was silent and still, unsure how to approach. Ellie was pulling together his things and wrapping some hard cheese into a cloth. She pulled out a crispy boule and cut it in half laying slices out onto a cloth lined basket for the table and the other half she wrapped in a cloth and placed it inside Sandor's bag. _Did she bake that just now?_ He marvelled that she could bake bread in such a meager kitchen. Ellie placed his bag near the door, she turned to Sandor and waved him to sit. Sandor did as he was told, he closed the door behind him and sat down at her tiny table. Ellie plated him a serving of carrots and potatoes from the garden, they were drenched in a rosemary and lemon scent, she then placed two large chickens on the table that were equally bathed in the spices. She sat down and there was silence. She looked up at him, "Are you a holy man? Do you need to pray?"

"Not really." Sandor oddly replied, a bit of strain in his voice, "I was rescued by a septon as I was dying at the bottom of a bloody cliff." Being truthful was a process Sandor was not used to, one step at a time, one truth at a time. He wanted to be secular but his cynicism for religion, any religion, was too great at times. He thought about brother Ray, he wondered when he would disappear like the rest of those who tried to save him. Brother Ray's words had sticking power, he remembered them as if it were yesterday they spoke.

Ellie gave a snort as she started to tuck into supper. She ripped off a leg and started cutting down the breast of the first chicken, "Who tore you down? Must've been a massive knight. Maybe a Knight of the Vale, they've got some fierce ones. Seen them at a tourney before, I think when the little Lord Arryn was born. Something like that."

Sandor gave her a look from below his brow, a bit chuffed he replied, "A woman nearly as tall as me."

Ellie paused and stared at Sandor's face, her mouth a bit gaped. Sandor ignored her and continued to eat. She shook her head once and continued to cut at her chicken. "Well I never in a million years would have guessed a woman cut you down." She snorted as she tore into a slice of bread. Sandor was not used to people laughing at him, let alone a story he was telling. It was a bit off putting but he lived through it, trying his best not to let his rage control him. What was there to be so angry about? He sat and continued to eat. She was looking at him, this time a bit more inquisitive. "I'm sorry I laughed. It's not fair when you don't know the circumstance. If you want to share, I am listening."

"You want to know?" Sandor said with confusion, "Why would you want to know?"

"I don't mean to intrude, it's not like I have much else to do or talk about here." she gestured to the tiny hut with her fork, "All the greatest stories ever told and written happened or they didn't. Did your story happen Sandor?"

Sandor reacted, he pulled his head back and quickly looked away. Was she getting to him, what are great stories anymore anyway. He looked back, she was still waiting and still staring. They really were at the end of the world, why not share the story. Sandor looked back and cleared his throat. "I was protecting a girl. She was the sister to another I once protected. A woman warrior and her squire found us on the side of a mountain. She meant to take the girl." Sandor punctuated the last sentence with a mouthful of potatoes, Ellie looked a bit surprised. Not expecting a story about honor. Must've assumed it a petty quarrel. He continued, "I was starving, injured and we fought. She was strong, she was skilled. It cost me a lot that day, nearly took my leg off. In the end the girl ran, I was felled off a cliff, and I never saw the damn bitch again."

Sandor trailed off those last few words, he continued to eat and as he looked up from his plate. Ellie was still staring, this time with her jaw dropped. "How are you here, you fell off a mountain? Who were you protecting, she must be very important to you. You're a knight aren't you?"

So many questions and they all annoyed Sandor very much. He said curtly, "I am no knight. Just a sellsword. I was at the end of my wits. Surviving the Riverlands with everyone your enemy was not something I thought I would have to live through." He shifted in his seat and finished off the last of the carrots on his plate. They had both eaten more than half of each chicken. Ellie gave a pleased smile, the kind that was flat against the teeth. She looked at him with different eyes than before, all skeptics but now with humility and warmth. She stacked the dishes and cleaned the meat off the chicken bones, wrapped it in the cloth and put it in Sandor's bag. She sat back at the table, she hesitated but scooped up Sandor's hand. He nearly recoiled when she started to talk, "Whatever you're doing, wherever your going, you're doing it for a girl aren't you?" Sandor wriggled his hand free with a look of disgust. She gave a look of satisfaction, believing she guessed right. "You are!"

"I am retiring." Sandor emphasizing each word as he walked toward the back door. Ellie ran in front of him and stood at the door.

"You can sleep in here, if you're travelling far which I suspected as much you will need better rest than out there." Ellie said sternly, "The bed is big enough for the both of us so don't be so shy." Sandor was surprised she could move so quickly in the hut but it was her home. He hesitated but knew if he was going to make it for the North the least he could be was well rested.

Ellie poured hot water into a basin and she washed her hands. Sandor did the same, cleaning the caked in dirt under his fingernails with all the fastidious nature he could muster. Ellie had already removed her dress, it was on a hook near the end of the bed. She lay on the far side leaving a generous amount of space for Sandor. Her hair spooled down her back, she was facing away from Sandor. Her night shift was open backed, he could see her pale skin and the low light making shadows across the blankets. Sandor removed his dirty clothing, down to his drawers. He looked back at Ellie again, if he wanted he could take her, stay here. The thought came and went as he eased himself into the bed. He lay on his back, watching the light from the fire speckle the ceiling. Mesmerized by the dancing lights, he fell back into a slumber.

Morning came fast and Sandor was walking away from Ellie's hut. She told him to stay along with tree line and perhaps not visit the hamlets along the way. She did not know if they were still overrun with ironborn. He warned her to leave, go South for the winter but she shrugged off the warnings. It was her home to die in, all she had left. She waved as he left and Sandor not sure what one would do in the moment, waved back. A short flick of the wrist and he was off, up through the valley and across a rocky terrain. Despite having slain three ironborn soldiers, the hut seemed like another world as if it was a mirage. He concentrated on the land, he looked out over down the trees. It was a low slope, down through rough rocks and moss covered boulders. In a day and a half, he made it to the fjord that followed through to the neck. Sandor looked down the ridge, he saw a low end he could climb down but for what, there was a short shoreline and no boats. He might have to swim, not exactly something he wanted to do in freezing cold waters. He would have to take a chance and travel to Flint's finger and boat across. Another day, he made it to the little fishing village. It was small and all the structures were very low to the ground. He managed to find the pier, with his hood pulled up he asked a few sailors if there was a boat going north. He managed to trade passage for boat work with an old man, said he was going to Bear Island. Sandor had never fished a day in his life but the old man said it was all laborious work and felt a man as big as Sandor would manage. He was just grateful none of the iron born soldiers recognized him let alone let a large man roam around the village. Perhaps they were tired of the fighting, Sandor only ever saw them sitting and drinking.

The sea was rough, the old man showed him what he needed him to do. It was mostly throwing nets and pulling them back in with winches. A fortnight's worth of fishing and Sandor was doing well, the old man praised him and asked if he thought about staying and working his ship. Yet another chance to leave behind the life of a Clegane, he dwelled on the idea but it had passed like smoke on a sea breeze. It was not the path he wanted to take. Sandor spent a few nights looking out at the shore, always checking that they were not drifting out further to sea. He twitched at the constant checking, alike the younger Stark daughter. Always checking that they were on their way to the Twins, to her family. He dreamed of a silver road, a path lit up with all the stones reflecting the moonlight while darkness surrounded him. The way was clear, it was the getting there that was intimating and harrowing. For a few nights he stood on the road but never moved, frustrated he was not walking, advancing in any way.

At the peninsula near Bear Island, the old man and Sandor rowed a boat out to the Wolfswood. He bid him good luck and left back to his boat and out of Sandor's mind. There was an imaginary path, he was looking for it day and night. A searchlight in the dark, the only path he knew would still be there. Like going home, he knew the way well even though he had never been there before. He weaved around trees as best as he could, his leg had never felt better. The journey was mending his strength, renewing his spirit. The cold though was his constant, reminding him there is looming danger in the form of nature. He kept walking, as straight as one with a destination in mind could. The trees grew sparser as he saw a large field over a short bump before a ditch. It was mostly flat and covered in snow, Sandor making it up the slope he saw a familiar castle in the white sky. It had been years since that ride up North with a former king, back then it was surrounded by dirt and a forever Autumn, back then he never thought it a great castle. He never thought he would see it as salvation. A sharp long breath in, Sandor was renewing a promise to himself. There was still good left to do, to atone for all the bad, every lost opportunity was about to change because he was willing them to change. Sandor made it about halfway to Winterfell before a rider came out to greet him. They had Stark colors on them, dark greys and white. One held a banner with the direwolf sigil and the other with his hand frozen on the hilt of his sword.

"In the name of the White Wolf, what is your purpose here? Who are you?" the man gripping his hilt demanded, "Speak or be slain."

Sandor dropped his hood, both men on their horses stepped back. One of them identified him, "He's the Hound. He's King's dog. A traitor!"

"Dog no more." Sandor corrected the bannerman, "Aye, I turned on King Joffrey but I am no ally to the Lannisters. Not anymore."

Another horse appeared, they surrounded him with swords drawn. Sandor did not want to fight but he didn't want to die in the cold snows of the North. The bannerman dismounted and relieved him of his sword, tied his hands and they ran him into the gates of Winterfell. In the courtyard, Sandor looked around, he remembered the high stone walls, soot stained with the constant fires to keep the castle warm. The mud back then would've been soft was now frozen under his heels. Back when he obeyed with no freedom to himself. A few men strode up to Sandor, one he recognized as the Imp's squire and the other he barely recognized as the bastard son of Eddard Stark, Jon Snow. He was taller, bigger some how, it was only normal, it had been many years.

"What are you doing here?" Jon demanded, "Who sent you here?"

Sandor stood straight as a statue, "No one, I came here myself. I would've been here with the Brotherhood but we were separated at the Twins."

"The Brotherhood?" Jon questioned.

"The Brotherhood Without Banners." Sandor answered, "They want to be the call to arms against the coming war. Whatever that means." he sneered, he still wasn't sure if he should believe them and their reasons. All he knew was they were coming north.

Jon sighed as he often did, he was flanked by his bannerman and the short squire. Sandor recognized him from King's Landing, who's squire was he? He seemed a bit surprised, angrily so. All the men seemed taken with the news that a band of turn coats and peasant soldiers were on their way North. Jon invited Sandor into the great hall, "The wind will kill us all if we keep pondering our stories." He led them all into the hall, the fires blazing hot and the discussion growing heated inside.

Sandor stood in front of the front platform where Jon took his seat. The seat was for the Warden of the North and he had realized what had conspired in the North. Sansa was not the Queen of the North, he was speaking to her bastard brother who was the King of the North. He needed to be careful, they could end him here and his path not yet finished. Sandor means to travel it to the end.

"What you say, about this Brotherhood, they really are coming here?" Jon confirming it again, as if it were a lie.

"Yes." Sandor guaranteeing they would show, "They were broken up at the Twins. Travelling from the Riverlands is full of peril."

"And you, how did you make it here? How was it that the Freys didn't get you? There are vast amount of lands from the Riverlands to here and you came from the Northwest, from the Wolfwood."

"A fishing boat, going to the Bear Island. It's not like this is difficult procedure." Sandor stressed, becoming more and more agitated.

Jon spoke quietly among his banner men, a fur clad red headed man with a giant beard, the tiny dark haired squire. Who were these people the boy surrounded himself with, are they really his trusted advisors? This was getting to Sandor, he was wondering if he should've waited for the Brotherhood. _The tiny squire, he is getting upset._ The man rose and spoke.

"I last saw you fighting my liege lady's knight, Brienne of Tarth, on the rolling hills of the Vale. You were the last man, last person with the younger Stark daughter Arya." the man spoke true, there was a hush among the crowd. Sandor harkened back to that night in the cave, fighting for his right to live against a flaming sword. Gods, he didn't want to repeat that fight. The murmurs among the crowd, Jon brought quiet back into the hall. He looked straight at Sandor, this time his eyes were daggers. The wrong answer would cost him his life then and there.

"Yes, I was." Sandor spoke with nuance making sure not to sound cocky, "I fell down that cliff and she stole the purse and ran. She was alive the last time I saw her. The last time I thought I would live."

"Were you harbouring her?" Jon interjected, "Were you her kidnapper?"

"At first," Sandor began as he reminded himself of their time in the Riverlands, "But the war of the five kings kept us from finding safety. I tried to take her to her mother and brother at the Twins, save her from entering the slaughter. We tried at the Eyrie but her aunt had recently died. It was just struggling to live. There was no safety for Arya. No safety for anyone."

A long silence grew, the situation was tense and Sandor needed to carefully choose his next words but it would seem the men on the platform was doing the same.

"You fell down a cliff, Brienne cut and punched you off the edge. How are you still alive?" the squire went on, wanting the truth mined for the room to see.

"I fell, I was dead, and I was saved. A septon was going to bury me but I came back." he limped forward, "And I'm here. There are no other lords or ladies I'd rather pledge my services to, you say there's a war coming then I am your sword."

Louder murmurs erupted around Sandor, he looked around him. This was unfamiliar territory. Jon was settling the room again, he turned towards Sandor, "You saw Arya last, does she live? Where did she go?"

Sandor looked straight in his eyes, "She was alive and well when she left me to die. I'm sure she still lives today. She is not so helpless as the world may believe." He tore away from Jon's gaze and added, "It was easy to believe, whipping that tiny sword around. Needle or something was it."

Jon walked down and cut the restraints from Sandor's wrists himself, Sandor was still. He stay standing, Jon walked back to his chair and sheathed his dagger. He didn't even turn back around as he stood beside his chair, "You can stay, help us in the war against the others. Your service is welcomed." he walked out of the hall. Gloomy as ever.

The squire walked up to Sandor, he offered his hand, "Will we work together, Hound?"

"What is your name?" Sandor asked as he took his arm in his giant hand.

"Podrick Payne, Ser." he shook, "Former squire to Tyrion Lannister."

He gave him a quizzical look, he wasn't the only turn coat here. Sandor released him, "Not a Hound, not anymore. And don't Ser me either, Sandor is... fine." He gritted his teeth as he said his own name. A name he always had, regarding it as his name was difficult as it labelled his humanity. Starting over and living truthful is not an easy task, especially if you're not used to your own name. A sad revelation to be uncomfortable with, Sandor dealt with it just as the blows of life come. As best as he could.

Podrick smiled, he introduced the red headed man to Sandor, "This is Tormund Giantsbane. He's the leader of the Free Folk."

"Free Folk?" Sandor inquired.

"From beyond the wall, we are no longer your wildlings." Tormund declared, "A place in the world, connected finally." he held out his arm, Sandor linked up.

He was different, he had a drawl in his voice that was unknown to Sandor. He was nonchalant, stood with power and was firm in his convictions. A great soldier was Sandor's estimation of the man, he'd seen enough war and blood to know a soldier. _What a strange trio._ Sandor gave Giantsbane a head nod, he replied in kind. The hall began to disperse, it would seem the drama of the day or week was over. Podrick showed him to the barracks of the castle, there were rooms enough, just not enough soldiers. Tormund gave an intrigued brow, Sandor was not sure what he wanted from him and gave him a puzzled look back. 

In time, Sandor learned the Lady of Winterfell had left with Brienne of Tarth. The maid knight that felled him on the cliffs of the Vale. He learned of the assassin, he learned of Podrick's insistence to become the soldier he knew Sansa would need. He was impressed by his ambition, his willingness to learn. Over the next few days, Sandor was interviewed often by Jon. At first he asked him of the Lannisters, Kings Landing business. Soon the questions spiralled down to learning about Arya and what they had done during the time together. Sandor was not gentle with the bastard, he told it true. The trial of fire, the fighting, when Arya took her second kill, even the retrieval of Needle from the road inn. Jon had anguish in his face, he looked pensive. Sitting with the White Wolf in the great hall, they were drinking over ale and a roaring fire. It was late, no one else was around except a few servants from the kitchen.

"And she just left you to die." Jon said bluntly, "She took your money and left you."

Sandor sat back in his chair, "Believe it, don't believe it. It's all true. I could barely believe it myself. After I had taught her how to mercy kill a man."

Jon sat in his chair, he finished his cup and set it down on the table. The harsh clap the cup made against the wood echoed, finally drowning into the crackle of the fireplace. Many nights had been spent this way, hard work by day and a long feast in at night. There were more supply carts coming from other houses, it was all in good since the Twins was in turmoil. This night seemed a bit different, Sandor was not often up this late drinking, it was a habit it had long let go during his time with Brother Ray. The more peculiar part was the company in which he was drinking in, not everyday a low-born soldier drinks with his liege lord so to speak. Sandor knew there was a reason why Jon stayed with him as each soldier, one by one, left and retired to sleep. Jon looked up at Sandor, he mean to ask his question.

"Out with it," he accused Jon, "You've a question since supper was served. That was hours ago."

Jon grimaced. He was looking a bit insecure. Jon pulled out a letter from his jerkin and lay it on the table. Jon spoke softly, "I received a letter from my sister Sansa."

"And yet you look at me with insecurity," Sandor narrowed his eyes, "What do you want from me?"

"I think... I think it's not in her hand." Jon revealed, stumbling over his words, "I think someone sent a false letter and it makes me uneasy. I've lost brothers, a father, a step mother, and now possibly my youngest sister. I've lost friends, allies, and now when I think I've sent my last living sibling to safety, I receive a fake letter. Tell me, how do you take that kind of news?"

Jon looked pale, he was devastated. Sandor looked at him with hard eyes. It was all he could do on the surface. Underneath it was as if a hand was squeezing Sandor's heart to a pulp, the news was destructive to his soul and it turned his mind dark. He wanted to ask more questions, he want to look at the letter, read it for himself, he wanted and yet he could not step over the line. He drew a breath, he drank the rest of his ale and slammed the cup on the table. The same echo, sharper.

"Are you certain?" Sandor brought his voice into a low growl.

Jon recognizing his intensity, matched him, "Yes."

"Well what do you want me to do about it, boy?" his voice grating like a sword on steel.

Taking offence to the comment he leaned in with his hands on the table, "Go and get her back. She cannot stay with Lord Baelish and Lord Robert any longer."

Jon gritted his teeth and sat back down, Sandor retreated his angered brow. He spat back, "You let your sister into the claws of Littlefinger? You are still a damn boy." Sandor stood and began to walk away from the table.

"Were not done here," Jon called out, "Where are you going?"

Sandor grumbled over his shoulder, "To the Eyrie."

 


	5. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is toiling on at the Eyrie, Sansa is unsure that her and Brienne's trip to the Eyrie was a smart move. Vying her time to plan a way out with Brienne, Sansa finds a way to stay in Sweetrobin's good graces by suggesting a tourney to name knights to Sweetrobin's court. Petyr Baelish sees through her ruse and double crosses her, raising the stakes causing Brienne to be taken away by his guards.

It was snowing again outside the tall windows of the Maiden Tower. Sansa had a piece of needlepoint in her lap when she looked outside, fluffy balls of snow raining down on the points of the mountain side. Like a dust of sugar but it was speckling the land in cold. She stared as the white fluff touched the stone walls and was swept away by the fast winds. Over and over, a few lucky flakes making it to the smallest ridges and sills. A week had gone past since she and Brienne arrived at the Eyrie. Her feet had healed and the castle keep was quiet. She didn't have many visitors nor were there especially many people in the tower. As if it was flushed out of people on her behalf, the very thought of it made her anxious. She turned back to her sewing, she was embroidering stems to flowers, roses she was hoping. Sansa hadn't picked a color yet, she considered blue but likened the color of pink, maybe yellow. Sansa looked around the solar, it sat upstairs to the bedrooms of the tower. It was large and round, nicely appointed furnishings around, a very bright hearth and chandelier. Brienne was sitting near by, reading one of the books she retrieved from the Eyrie library. It was leather-bound and tall like Brienne. She had stopped wearing her armor but kept her studded jerkin and sword on her person. Sansa felt as if her time as a gallant knight might be stunted here in the Eyrie.

"You don't have to stay here with me all hours of the day Brienne." Sansa quipped, "No reason you couldn't explore the Eyrie. Maybe take up training hours with the knights here."

Brienne looked up from her book, she closed it on her thumb and set it in her lap. Brienne smiled slightly, "No, it's fine. I doubt any man in the Eyrie would want to be bested by a woman. It would be unwise to leave your side."

Always thinking of her duty, Sansa was jealous of her purpose. She smiled and Brienne nodded and smiled back. In the days that they had been there, Sansa spent her time doing enough needlepoint to dress a fleet of girls. She had breakfasts with Brienne, spent some meals with Sweetrtobin, often reading stories from books that always featured knights. Sweetrobin was fond of her but more so now that she read to him. Sansa although found the time pleasant enough, used this activity as leverage over Littlefinger. He might stand as Sweetrobin's uncle and protector, but he was not the Lord of the Vale. Anything Sweetrobin wanted, he would have to oblige. For now, Sansa was in a perpetual state of veiled safety. It would not last, she needed to find the advantage. Currently, her only move was to marry someone in the Vale that was not Lord Baelish.

_But he would try and undo them._ Sansa thought to herself finishing another leaf on the bramble of roses she was sewing. Lunch time arrived and Sansa made her way to the apartments of the Lord of the Vale. Sweetrobin often dined in his personal solar, he was frail and not so strong enough to always make the trip down the stairs to the greater halls of the Eyrie. She sometimes believed he was simply too lazy to try. He might be a sickly boy but part of the problem was his own inversion to making himself stronger. If the task was too difficult he would call on one of his knights, specifically Lothor Brune to carry him down long staircases. He was tall and strong, not a difficult task for him to perform. Every time Brune was called he was straight faced, never budging into a bad mood to move the Lordling anywhere he wished to go. _Perhaps he is fond of Sweetrobin_.

Sweetrobin was looking better than the last day. Sansa read aloud with delight, feeding him stories of the strong warriors and how they saved the seven kingdoms from peril. Great dragon kings and queens, true knights who honored their halls, swords clashing and the gods. One story after another Sweetrobin requested of Sansa to read aloud, the more she read the more she felt the stories losing truth. Some she felt were exaggerated beyond belief but Sweetrobin was still wide eyed and happy. He believed ever little detail as it reflected her childhood. Unfortunately for Sweetrobin, he was old enough to know better but not one would object to his logic. Everyone too afraid to challenge him and his moon door.

"Knights!" Sweetrobin stood on his chair and yelled, "I need knights! Every king has them, why shouldn't I?"

Sansa looking at him with a half smile, somewhat worried these stories had gone straight to his head pulled his arm down and jokingly spoke, "Calm down Sweetrobin, you have enough knights to fill the courts of ten kings."

Sweetrobin laughed, "It's true, the Vale is blessed with valiance." he went on with a puffed up chest, "Best fighters in the seven kingdoms. Nay, the whole realm."

Sansa closed her book and set it aside, she chuckled and set into her lunch. She urged the pepped up prince to sit and eat with her, as they wondered what his knights would don, Littlefinger entered the solar. He was dressed in a dark violet long coat trimmed with a silk border, fastened with a silver pin with a birds wing at the end of it. He sat across from the two, a servant placed a plate in front of the slender man. Lunch was comprised of fresh baked breads, soft cheeses, Autumn fruits, and cured meats each tasting unique to its smoked creation. Salty, sweet, savoury, even buttery or crumbly. Some with the smell and taste of the trees in the Riverlands, some that tasted like the sunny hills of the Reach. You need not travel directly to High Garden to somehow taste its vineyard if only you tried the cured beef laid on that table.

"And what kind of mischief are we getting ourselves into this afternoon." Lord Baelish inquired playfully, "Intrigue? I see it has been story time. Have I interrupted?"

"No my lord, we have just finished and started into lunch." Sansa replied stringently as she continued to nibble at her bread, having lost a bit of her appetite from before.

Littlefinger was studying her, Sansa could feel his gaze as he watched her quietly serve herself a slice of bread and lay a thin slice of meat and then another. She never looked up at him nor did she deter her actions, acting every bit the lady to shield her truths. Thankful Robin was about, he grabbed at the fruit. Piling a handful of grapes and sliced apple on his plate. Munching loudly and tearing bread, crumbs everywhere on the table. Sansa normally would be irked by such table manners but felt it broke up the tension of the arrival of Littlefinger.

"Sansa was reading me stories about great knights and kings." Sweetrobin spoke through a mouthful of crust, "I should have knights, Dedicated knights. Uncle Baelish, please I want this."

Sansa saw Littlefinger's brow raised in surprise, the little Lord of the Vale making bold demands. Sansa swallowed the food in her mouth and spoke bluntly, "Perhaps, a tourney? Many great knights of the realm invited to win a place in your court?"

Sansa was not sure if this was a good idea, asking strangers inside from the cold meant more risk of another attempt at her life but if she cannot stay in Sweetrobin's favor it could mean riskier outcomes. Sansa was playing wildly with the pieces in play. It was but a second she thought of the risk when she knew the idea had struck joy on the lordling's face. He was smiling big with excitement, hands in the air and hopping in his seat. Sweetrobin was smitten with the idea of choosing the strongest knights to protect him, at least for a time. A tourney would take time to organize and to execute. Furthermore, knights of different backgrounds although a fearful idea could be advantageous of Sansa. What if they were from Riverrun, the North, she could have allies inside the Eyrie.

"Oh Sansa, what a marvellous idea!" Sweetrobin shouted, "A tourney, for knights, for me. This is better than my name day. Uncle Petyr, this has to happen. We must have this event, this tourney. The Vale stands strong and we need knights."

Littlefinger grinned looking straight at Sansa, she replied with a look emotionless back, just a hint of smugness. Sansa was winning his favor and now Littlefinger was on the hook of making the tournament a reality. It should keep him busy, away from her is what she believed. Littlefinger smiled and said his courtesies of returned delight. He mirrored Sweetrobin's excitement only making the lordling satisfied that this was a grand idea. Sansa smiled and giggled along side the sickly boy, she would need to tell Brienne.

Their meal came to an end. Sweetrobin left with a chamber maid to lay down for the afternoon, a child's nap. Sansa was left awkwardly with Littlefinger in the solar, the servants had left wine but she didn't want any. Littlefinger poured her a cup against her wishes and then one for himself, a dark sour red. He drank a long drag, parting with the cup he set it down with quiet ease. He stared at Sansa, she sipped the wine and raised a brow but never smiled at him.

"A good ruse. You think this plan will keep you in his good graces." he spoke, "I've been here longer, he doesn't know who to ask to get something done around this castle. You're play is nothing better than a beggar. There will be a tournament, he will receive knights, and they will all work for me."

He smiled and raised his cup, Sansa did not reply in kind. Her anger seething through her knuckles clasped around the cup. He took another long sip, slowly moving his eyes up her bodice. Sansa sat unmoving, trying to look undeterred. She was playing the game the way she wanted but it was his move and Sansa was not sure what it was going to cost her. Her moves once guided by the master, she needed to be ahead somehow. Littlefinger stood, he smoothed his jacket as he moved to the other side of the table. Sansa fidgeted and turned her body trying not to give him physical advantage but he lay a hand on her shoulder and turned her around.

"The image is clear in my mind and I have yet to find an obstacle I couldn't jump, no problem I couldn't solve. I will undo this and make it right." he whispered in her ear, his lips grazing her lobe, "I am still here. I still want you."

Sansa stilled in fear, possibly. Not wanted to enrage him, not that she knew what he looked like angry. Littlefinger moved his hand down from her shoulder down her body, she felt his palm fall past her ribs, down her side and stop right at her waist. His other hand lay behind her neck, pulling his body on her, he pushed down a kiss on her lips. A familiar happenstance but all untoward. Sansa never kissed him back nor did she touch him when he was on her. She was still but this time he advanced, Sansa groaned a high pitched squeak. Littlefinger pushed his tongue inside her mouth. He played with her tongue and tasted her, Sansa closed her eyes hard. Now, her still hands were against his arms hoping to push him off. He had a tight grip on her waist and head, she moved her head to the side and he trailed downward and kissed her neck. A few tears emerged from the corner of her eyes, he was being more forward. The Eyrie was his home, there was no way a lordling like Sweetrobin would be able to protect her. He was breathing her scent, Sansa was shaking unsure how to detach. Littlefinger stayed for a moment buried in her neck when he eventually rose and left her. He only looked back for a moment, almost to make sure she was shaking. The image he spoke of was elusive to him and Sansa knew if she placed any negative wash on the image, it could lead to dire consequences. Denying him for a second was always costly, she simply let him believe it could be fixed. It was her mystery piece, something Petyr never could guess she would play him for.

He left the room and Sansa finally took a breath in, enraged and tearful she was angry at the outcome of events. She only meant to persuade Sweetrobin to her side, her routine was undermined and she was left with a warning. He was flaunting his power right in front of her face. The air was cold in the solar, she sat heaving nearly crying. She picked up her cloth napkin and wiped her neck line where Littlefinger had lay his narrow mouth, his essence still there. Sansa was frowning, throwing the napkin into the fire behind her. Closing her eyes she lay her hands on her face, trying to conjure a spell. The fire felt hot against her arm, transforming into a hand with large fingers, steadying her person. Words of wisdom, rasping into her ear, telling her to be weary, telling her truths, she wanted company, his company above all.

A large hand clasped Sansa on the shoulder, she pulled out of her mind and gasped loudly. For a blurry moment, she thought the gods were granting wishes. A large silhouette of a man against the light of the fire, her eyes focused and saw the familiar Lothor Brune. He stood in front of her, looking rather concerned.

"What is wrong, my lady?" Lothor spoke quietly, "Why are you still in the solar?"

Sansa was shocked, she hadn't thought anyone was around, not even servants. He was quiet, she didn't even hear him approach. She coughed and looked up at him, "I was just about to leave. I was just in a mood."

Lothor looking Sansa over, he seemed a bit skeptical but it was not his place to question questions of the Lord of the Vale. He offered to escort her back to the Maiden Tower. She accepted graciously, he walked in front of her as she followed. Sansa looked at his back, he certainly was nearly as big as the Hound. He didn't quite walk like him though, then again not anyone did either. Lothor did not have a great sword like the Hound did, no ferocity in his eyes like the Hound,  not even a tinge of harshness in his voice like the Hound. He was simply a faint copy of him, he barely encompassed some of his image and yet he reminded Sansa of the lone warrior. Quiet when he wanted to be, in service to a lord, loyal to a fault. As they walked, Sansa was feeling her heart sink with every step. It was a different castle, a different lord, and a different set of problems but the feeling of being caged and the guise of protection made it all too clear to Sansa to leave. It was a huge mistake to have ever left the North, all that Sansa felt were too coincidental and it all started with the letter and the Eyrie knights arriving right afterwards. It was all a lure, if Littlefinger's play was to keep her than she needed to escape.

They arrived at the tower and Sansa bid Lothor good day. He bowed and strode off with no particular emotion in his step, she moved quickly to Brienne's door and knocked. Sharp raps into the door, Brienne immediately opened and looked around to meet Sansa's eyes. She stepped aside and let her in. Sansa told Brienne what had transpired, she had to settle her nerves, Brienne nearly brandishing a sword wished to walk out and stab Littlefinger through his pointed beard. Sansa quelled her, needing her to be calm.

"If you do anything hasty, it could be terrible for Jon and myself." Sansa explained, "He might be a rat but that doesn't change how powerful a rat he is. I know you mean well Brienne but we must be smart."

Brienne took a deep breathe and let out a grunt of anger, she sheathed her sword and clutched the hilt. Her anger was so big, loud, and on the surface. Sansa felt a bit jealous, her armor was also what kept her from feeling everything on the surface, on her face. It was so easy for Brienne, for Arya, the ability to scream and to screw up her forehead and deeply wrinkle the expressions of hate on her face. Sansa's courtesy was a good shield but the weight on her brow was so heavy, she never budged and nor will she until all wars ended and her brow was deep into the ground.

"Say what you need and I will do it." Brienne bending the knee, "I am yours, I will do as you order, Lady Sansa."

Sansa sat quiet, trying to think of the next move. Surely, Jon should know she is planning on leaving. At the very least, he should know not to rely on Baelish and the Vale. For now, a letter, something to change the tide. Sansa prompted Brienne for a quill and parchment, she started writing a short letter. It must be direct and yet thinly veiled as to only Jon would understand. She gave the small roll to Brienne and ordered her to send it right away. Brienne took it the paper and belted her sword, she nodded and left with haste. Sansa retired to her chamber, leaving her orders to wake her as soon as Brienne had sent the letter.

The evening ran down. Dinner had long past and the sun exchanged places with the moon. It was late and Sansa wondered if Brienne was able to send a raven. It had been hours but she sat, reading, sewing her roses. She was almost done another rose when she heard a light knock at the door.

"Come in," Sansa answered.

Brienne looked out of breath, she kneeled and spoke between breaths, "I managed without many eyes watching me, so to speak."

"So to speak, did someone see you Brienne." Sansa inquired, her brow showing worry.

"I'm not sure, the shadow was small and I think a child." Brienne explained, piecing together what she saw, "It was not Lord Baelish nor was it a knight but possibly a child. I have failed you, my lady."

"Not so, I don't recall his spies being children." Sansa reassuring Brienne, "And if the raven is in flight then it is already going to Jon and we must think of way out of here."

They talked for another hour, thinking of ideas or excuses to go down the high sky castle. Sansa told Brienne the best time would be during the tournament and that would be a grand time to escape. Brienne agreed with Sansa, it was not ideal but it was just messy enough to work in their favor.

"The tourney should be in a few weeks. We have time to look natural and at home." Sansa schemed, "I will continue to bid for Lord Robert's favor and hopefully we can leave without much excitement."

"This is a good plan, we can make it work." Brienne added, "I will see to making arrangements when we descend the tower."

"Good." Sansa smiled.

"I retire for the night, Lady Sansa." at that last remark, Brienne made her way to the door.

"And Brienne," Sansa lifted her head high, "Whatever happens, if we travel back North or not. I am glad to be in your company."

Brienne nodded and smiled, letting out a relived sigh. She bowed quickly and made her way out of Sansa's chambers.

The fire was burning low and the hour was very late, Sansa tossed and turned in her bed. Her dreams were pitch black with figured lit in various shades. Hands reaching out of the darkness grabbing at her body, tearing her dress, she saw blood running from their hands staining everything they touched. She ran in her dream, faceless silhouettes turning around in the darkness before her, a familiar pointed beard. Screaming, Sansa awoke in a flop sweat. Her neck inflamed, she grabbed at her neck and shoulders, her skin was crawling. The sun had barely rose, just enough light to tint the sky a dark blue. Sansa jumped out of bed and walked up to the window, looking out she could see the mountains in the distance. To be far away from those chambers, the Eyrie is all she wanted now. Envious of Arya and her ability to stray away from the normative code of society. Live alone and away, Brienne can come with her, of course.

A sudden booming noise and a loud clash of armor erupted beyond Sansa's door. She ran to her door and opened it to find knights of the Vale breaking down Brienne's door and beating her. A knight grabbed Sansa's arm, she shrieked as he whipped her to the floor. The three knights pulled Brienne to the floor with Sansa, tying her wrists.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sansa demanded, trying not to waver.

"Your request my sweetling," a voice answered from beyond the armored men, "It's in your letter you wrote last night."

Littlefinger emerged, he was holding Sansa's letter now spattered with blood. Sansa wide eyed, unsure what was transpiring looked at him with anguish. Before she could speak he ripped her letter in half.

"I sent a new letter on your behalf, your brother will soon know you're doing well here and that you're being taken care of, what's to worry?" he playfully spread open his arms, "Come Lady Sansa, I will help you back to your chambers."

Littlefinger pulled Sansa to her feet, she pulled her head back away from him. The knights took Brienne away, there were at least five men struggling to drag her out of the tower. Sansa tried to run to her but Littlefinger held her close. As the knights left, it was her and Littlefinger and a familiar silhouette. Lothor Brune had accompanied the knights and the Lord Protector. "Wait for me at the bottom of the tower, Lothor." And with that, the large Brune turned his heel and disappeared.

Littlefinger kicked the door closed while holding Sansa and forced her into her chamber. She thrashed harshly, she nearly punched him in the face. Littlefinger pushed her on the bed, she got up quickly but he pushed her to lie down with his hands on her shoulders. She was struggling, screaming as Littlefinger held her down and grabbed her wrists.

"Look at me," he begged her, "Look at me, Sansa."

Sansa stopped thrashing but her head was turned away from him. He went on, "Please Sansa, understand I am just trying to look out for you. You cannot leave the most fortified castle in the realm. Where would you go that Cersei could not infiltrate? She's the Queen, and you are nothing. There is nothing to fight about, stay here. Stay with me."

Sansa frustrated started to tear up, this was not how this was going to end. He would do worse until she agreed to his big dream, it was not her dream and it was not a dream at all, a nightmare, an obsession. She did not care for men and their obsessions. There was no shield of courtesy, Sansa was visibly upset. Her face twisted in pain.

"Why can't you see I'm doing this for you. For you're own good." he rattled on. Sansa couldn't care less what he had to say. Her wrists were held captive against her chest, she could feel his weight shifting on her legs. He had a knee up on the bed, pinning her thighs together and against his weight. She felt him lower down on her, her legs kicking trying to get him to disengage. She didn't want him to see her cry but it was too late, she was tearing up and streams falling away from her eyes. She felt a hand brush her tears from her cheek, he had released her wrists. Crumpling into her own chest, Sansa pulled her legs into herself. Littlefinger stood up and released her. Sansa looking at him through her knotted arms, he looked back at the door for a moment and laid back down by Sansa. He forced his hands up her body and spooned her from behind, he grasped at her soft breast and buried his head back into her neck. Just as he did the day previous. Sansa shook, trying to grab his hands and take them off her body. He simply held her tighter against himself, nuzzling her nape. He kneeded her skin, pinching her, Sansa struggling to free herself trying to call out for help, for Brienne or Jon. He moved a hand up her body and grasped her throat to keep her from screaming so loudly.

"In time, this awkwardness between us will be gone." he whispered sweetly in her ear, "You will be my wife, Sweetrobin will pass away, and the Vale will be ours. I could give you power, real power if only you would reach out to me and ask." there was a silence as Sansa closed her eyes. He leaned down and kissed her nape again, pushing his hardened manhood into her backside. Her eyes flew open, more vicious than before, a steely blue that could pierce the thickest armor.

His hand was slouching from her throat, Sansa saw a short opening. "Never," Sansa pushes his face away from her neck, she rolled out of his grasp and scrambled to the other side of the bed, "I'll never ask you of anything, I'll never give you that satisfaction of waving a thing over my head." Sansa threw her books from the nightstand at him, pillows, looking around she picked up a chair and threw it over the bed at Littlefinger. He simply dodged it and made for the door. "I'd rather die."

"In time, this will settle too. How long are you going to be mad with me when there isn't anyone else here." he left on those words, locking the door behind her.

The room was dancing with dust and feathers, she stared at the door. This was far worse than she thought. After years of being courted kindly, it seemed that the playing field was worse here. He was secretive in King's Landing, when Aunt Lysa was near, secretive in the presence of the Northerns, her brother Jon. Sansa was without allies, Brienne had been taken somewhere and whether she lives or dies was not up to her. Her great knight stolen, they were stuck in a mountain high tower, her enemy sought her as a wife. Cersei only wanted her dead, she would rather be dead than live in the horror of now. Collapsing to the floor, her hands balled in fists she beat the stones until they were bruised and broken. Blood and tears salting the floor, marking her loss at the game. The game was nothing she wanted to be apart of but she was corralled in like lost sheep. She left home again, how foolish she felt for wanting more than the idea of home but the idea of safety. She was the fool she described, trusting Littlefinger even the slightest and he found a way to maneuver and strategize against her. Everywhere was a trap, there was no relief.

 


	6. Sansa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the traumatic events that had conspired, Sansa is desperately holding on to anything that could keep her alive. Sweetrobin visits during her time of turmoil and gives her an olive branch that she could take advantage of, in which Littlefinger must comply to the Lord of the Vale.
> 
> In this plan though she returns to a familiar dark haired alias of days past.

The room was blurry, Sansa was leaning into the corner of her chamber. Her hands were palms down on the walls, she was holding herself there as if the castle was spinning. It had been a fortnight since her encounter with Littlefinger. She was still effected, dredging up past wounds as laid by a forgotten house. Sansa was breathing in sharply through her nose and out her mouth, making an audible sigh every time. Her eyes were teary but angry, her brow almost stuck in a distinctly mean facade. Each breath out was resolving her hate for her Mother's old childhood friend. He was no friend, just a player. Using chaos to destroy everything.

Sansa has since moved the table and vanity to the other side of the room. She struggled but she had all time time to move them during the week. She created a blockade in her room, she pulled the bedding and nested into the corner behind her wardrobe. As the days went by, she managed to create a shank from a hair pin. It was double pronged with a painted rose at the top. She snapped one of the prongs to create a sharp edge and kept it in her hair. The servants still came and brought her food and cleaned the rearranged room. Sansa needed to look well in their eyes, she still dressed herself every morning before they came, her hair brushed out. They would come, take her chamber pot and leave an empty one, placing a tray of food on the table and then leave. The tray never came with utensils, just a plate and cup made of wood filled with food. Sansa would eat everything in moderation. Petyr was a poisoner, he saved her with a poison gemstone in Joffrey's cup. Sansa would eat a nibble and took tiny sips, she would wait an hour before consuming the rest. It was worth the detriment mentally, to know she was not being drugged.

On the seventh day of her confinement, a familiar voice called to her. "Lady Sansa!" it was meek and pitchy, the young Sweetrobin came visiting.

The door opened and Sansa was still just as suspicious of the visit. Lothor Brune pushed the furniture aside and broke through her barrier with ease, Sansa gave out a short snort. Of course a big man like him could barrel through her defence. Sweetrobin ran up to her and threw his arms around her, she hugged him back stiffly. He noticed and looked at her with saddened eyes.

"Uncle Petyr said you were naughty and that's why you haven't left your room. Is it true? What did you do, just apologize I'm sure Uncle Petyr will understand." Sweetrobin pleaded with her, tugging at her arm.

Sansa was always disturbed by how Sweetrobin could act so childish when he was just a few inches shorter than herself. His bones and muscles were smaller than hers and it always made her feel strong but not by very much. Sansa sat with Sweetrobin down on the chairs that were strewn through the room and stroked his hair back from his eyes.

She gave him a very loving look she spoke sweetly, "I didn't do anything wrong Sweetrobin," cupping his face, "Lord Baelish is very mad at me. He took my knight and tore up my letter. He said I was his and not to send letters home." she coated the words in icing and yet it was true.

"No, that's not true. Uncle Petyr took your letter because I told him that your knight was sending one. I don't want you to leave!" he screamed and started to sob, "I'm sorry Sansa but I don't want you to leave." he cried heavily into Sansa's chest, pawing and grabbing at her dress, nearly tearing her shoulder seams.

Sansa struggled to keep him still, he rocked her back and forth in an awkward position leaving tear stains on her dress. Sansa thought about what Brienne had said, that a small child saw her drop the letter off. It was a misunderstanding that led to Brienne being dragged off. It isn't Sweetrobin's fault but she wished he would act his age and not a child, running off, telling on Sansa like she was a sibling. Sansa concluded she would only put up with Arya making rash decisions like that. Sansa began tearing up, she lifted Sweetrobin's head to meet her eyes.

"Oh sweet little boy," Sansa knitted her brows further, "You are the Lord of the Vale, whatever you want is yours. You can release my knight, you can help Uncle Petyr and I make up. Otherwise, I don't know if I can take leave to your tournament." Sansa gave him a peck on the cheek. Her insides turning, her face was not one of paralleled emotion but all she wanted to do was retch and cringe alone.

Sweetrobin smiled and hugged her, Sansa was surprised but hugged him in return. He cried loudly but managed a few words, "I want you to be at the tourney. You have to be there." he grabbed her tightly, Sansa nearly choked of air. Perhaps he was stronger than she thought.

"Stay here with me Sansa, be my Lady." Sweetrobin proclaimed, "We can marry after the tourney, we can stay together. I don't like anyone else." he shook her from her arms. Sansa looked at Sweetrobin and smiled even though her eyes showed worry. He smiled back and held her hands. He giggled, "I just thought wouldn't it be fun to be married. We could rule the Vale together, you can read my stories every day."

As the little lordling was bouncing in his chair, another figure graced the room. Peter Baelish quietly meandered around the skewed furniture, Sansa stood up and looked a bit stern. Sweetrobin saw her expression, he stood and turned and spoke, "Uncle Petyr, Sansa is coming to the tourney. She's my guest, not yours to order around here." he was strong, stronger than Littlefinger expected. He half smiled and approached the little lord but there was a stunned silence when he batted his hand away, "And she will stay with me. I love her and we will marry. You will make this happen."

Littlefinger looked at him the lordling, barely able to focus on one thing after another. Sansa was not sure if she should interject and make little of Sweetrobin's claim. It was not legitimate and it's not like she and him had really brokered a deal to be married but it was a way out and certainly away from Littlefinger's grip. She saw Littlefinger take a deep breath before her spoke, "Lady Sansa is here because she broke the rules and can't come to the tourney."

"SHE WILL COME." Lord Robert found his voice, "This is what I want, these are my orders. Sansa is coming." He stamped his feet on the stone.

In that moment, Lothor Brune stood by the little lord.It would seem Sweetrobin was trying on his Lordship shoes. Lord Robert was puffing his chest up for Sansa. She was grateful and a bit proud but at what cost, should she not find a way out from the tourney she will have to marry Lord Robert. Perhaps still, better than Littlefinger's toy. She stood with the Lord of the Vale. Littlefinger relented, he bowed and did as he was commanded. Lord Robert feeling the victory of his actions slunk back down and stayed with Sansa until Uncle Petyr exited. Sweetrobin commanded Lothor to pull the mattress back to the bed, he did with no complaints. They sat on her bed as they conducted Lothor and a guard near the Maiden Tower to move the furniture back in place. The room had come back together and Sansa read to him from her book, it was about a man travelling across the world to see all he could see. A maid brought dinner and they ate together, Sansa didn't pause to eat as she read on for Sweetrobin. They lay together on her bed above the blankets, Sansa cradled Sweetrobin's head as he nuzzled into her bosom. A feeling Sansa quickly felt shivers up her back, it was not a nice feeling but she read on trying to get past the awkwardness. He did after all stuck his neck out for her. After a chapter, Sansa saw Sweetrobin yawn. She pounced on the opportunity.

"Sweetrobin," Sansa whispered, "Will you release my knight, Brienne. She did nothing wrong."

Sweetrobin yawned, "I could."

"But will you?" Sansa sweetly replied, she cooed into his ear.

"Aww, I guess." Sweetrobin blushed, "For you I will. My future wife." he giggled lightly and nuzzled back into Sansa's bosom.

"Th-thank you... Sweetrobin." Sansa stuttered as he groped her waist and squeezed her harder as the giant baby that he is. Sansa quickly turned to the book and read about the gleaming tides and shores of Tarth as the man in the book found a ship to set sail in.

Lord Robert nearing sleep lay on Sansa's arm and she beckoned Lothor to come inside. He appeared to the side of her bed, the candle light burned low and his silhouette still reminded her of another. He slowly picked up the little lord and looked at Sansa. He nodded his head and walked away, always in silence. The guard closed her door as the room's warmth and sound turned down. Sansa sprung from her bed and locked her door. She turned to the hearth and piled another log on. Sansa looked at her dinner, barely touched. She was still paranoid that Littlefinger would drug her, unsure if Sweetrobin falling asleep was natural or because of something lacing her food. She nibbled like before, sipped like before, and waited like before.

The next day, Sansa was packing her trunk. She thought about which dresses she could live without should she need to leave in haste. As she placed her gloves and hairpins in a box, there was a rapping on the door. Littlefinger and a chamber maid arrived, Sansa was unsure how to react since there was more than himself there. She stood proudly and continued to fold her scarves and placing them into the trunk.

"What can I do for you, Lord Baelish?" Sansa asked him kindly.

Littlefinger whispered to the chamber maid and she exited to wait outside, Sansa watched her leave and became confused. He spoke kindly in return, "My Lady Sansa, I am here because we should still take precaution in your safety. I asked the maid there to bring in the copper tub."

"Why?" Sansa asked with strain.

"The tourney will be rather large and long, best to look less like Sansa Stark and revisit a previous alias you had here at the Eyrie." he purred, "What say you, daughter?"

Two maids walked in with a copper tub, the other had a small basin with water as black as tar. Sansa stared at the color and knew this was a way for him to stay close. Pretending to be his bastard daughter worked well the first time she arrived at the Vale, touring and meeting other lords and ladies. It was also a way for Littlefinger to touch her, she didn't want to be in the same room as him.

But Sansa recalled the blood on the snow. Melting into larger red dots, the hot blood on her arm, how it could've been her blood, or Podrick slain before her. She nodded her head and with that Littlefinger exited. The women took care of her, bathed her and slowly ran the black liquid through her hair. Every wash through was covering her heritage as a Stark and a Tully, as horrible as painting over a colourful tapestry with the smell of ink and soot. As her hair turned to black, the ladies finished washing her stained skin and left with the tub. Sansa brushed her hair, seeing the teeth of the brush stain with black. A reality of her appearance. She disliked it, her hair had a faint smell she disliked, lightly staining her shoulders and pillows. She would need to wear something dark colored for the event. Looking back at her sewing, she had done so many roses on a long bolt of snow white fabric. She was going to sew it into a dress for the tourney but with this dark hair she felt less than ecstatic to do so. But the roses were lemon yellow and sky blue, she adored the pairing, reminded her of summer and the better days spent in Kings Landing. It might've been gruelling and hellish at the end but when she first arrived it was filled with life and purpose. She only had one life to live, Sansa wasn't about to waste it with a sick little boy or a possessive manipulator. She spun her hair into a bun, pushed the things from the large table away to her vanity and bed and started cutting panels of cloth.

The heat in the room expanded as Sansa worked her magic over her threads and pins. Guiding her shears and sewing well into the night, she made a gorgeous dress. Sansa thought it looked modern somehow, she let the fabric speak waves. The roses she embroidered were the densest near the waist and they flourished out up the bodice and down the dress. The skirt was plain but the green vines running downward looked as if the roses was growing from the floor. The top was finished tightly and sat just off the shoulders, dipping only at her sternum where she could fasten the middle with her favourite dress pins from Kings Landing. They were brassy and winged, unknown winged creatures but beautiful nonetheless.

The next morning, as breakfast arrived Sansa finished the lining as she pecked at her food. She was dressed in a dark, plum violet dress she had since Kings Landing. It was one of her favorites. It was loose enough to hide her belly after large meals but snug enough to compliment her hips. Sansa carefully folded the newly sewn dress into her trunk, under an old dark maroon dress, an Alayne dress, and closed her trunk. She felt good about the dress though it might clash terribly with her darkened hair. Sansa was determined to at least have a good time in it, one good night at the tourney before disappearing. Maybe if she sailed across the Narrow Sea, she could try and find Arya. She had so much she wished to say to her, so much she wished she could take back if she could. Sansa sat lost in her thoughts, morose at the idea of Arya lost or Arya passed away. A man entered, it was a porter ready to take her trunk. She smiled and thanked him for his service. He grunted in a kindly way and walked away with her trunk of clothes.

Sansa looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself in the reflection. The black hair always made her face more harsh looking, as if she was a bit mean looking. Maybe that was for the best, looking mean, warding off any potential suitors. It was only her smiling or looking playful did the dark hair play with the angles of her cheeks. Sansa smiled and repeated, "Alayne, Alayne Stone. My father, Lord Baelish of the fingers and Lord Protector of the Vale. Alayne. Alayne." she shook her head, lightly touching her hand to her chest in an appropriately lady like fashion. All her gestures were always appropriate as Sansa but she needed to be bolder as Alayne, a bastard daughter. She sighed and let go of her alias for a moment. For a flickering moment, she wished her eyes were a deep grey instead of blue then at least she would look like him. Sansa straightened her back and tried it on, "Alayne, Alayne Clegane." She laughed, the name rhymed and she sang it harmoniously in a false introduction to her reflection. Her laughter died down and the reality of being alone again settled in her mind, he was gone. If he was smart he would have left this continent. Maybe he's dead, many still wanted the fat reward that was placed over his head. Why would he stay here... _I bet he's drinking in Pentos or Lys._  

Descending the staircase, she saw Lord Baelish and Lord Robert. For once, he was not accompanied by Lothor Brune. They greeted with the same monotonous tones as stale bread and walked with the guards. The wind was less than the day Sansa arrived and as they made for the entrance Sansa noticed that Brienne was not with them. She looked around and she was no where to be seen. Sansa was feeling nervous as the group made for the crescent shaped chamber. Sansa leaned towards Lord Robert and softly asked, "Sweetrobin, I thought Brienne would be joining us."

"Oh, that," he replied with a down turn in his voice, "Uncle Petyr said we can release her after the tourney."

Sansa furrowed her brow, "But I-"

Lord Baelish smoothly interrupted, "We are just too busy to do it now sweet daughter."

"I- I..." Sansa looking for words, "I wanted to see her compete." she took a breath in, hoping this would be enough.

"Is she skilled, she is a woman..." Lord Robert inquired.

"Oh yes, she could best any man of the Vale. She could best Lothor in a duel of swords." Sansa puffed up her knight.

They were beckoned by a way guard and Sansa and Lord Robert entered a large cargo basket. Lord Baelish started his way down the stone steps. This was her chance to sell Brienne's release to Sweetrobin. As Sansa told Lord Robert how Brienne was gallant when she saved her from the Boltons dogs and how she bested a man right off a cliff edge to save a maiden, covering the truth about Arya. Not wanting to expose her to unknown enemies. The basket landed with a quiet thud and the two dismounted along with a guard, the basket started to ascend and she could see how excited Sweetrobin had become, losing that regal look she saw earlier. Around the curve came the first few soldiers they saw and then a weary looking Petyr Baelish.

"Uncle Petyr! I want to see this fight!" Sweetrobin exclaimed, "We have to release Brienne of Tarth. I can choose if she flies some other time. I want to see Lothor win!"

"Lothor will win anyway, what difference if it's against the maiden knight of Tarth." Petyr surmised as he was catching his breath.

"But I want it." the lordling stamped his feet, "Release her!"

Lord Baelish was breathless and annoyed so he relented, "I will do it when I can sit and write a command. At the Gates of the Moon."

Sweetrobin jumped up in excitement, he hugged his Uncle Petyr and grabbed Sansa's hand. "Sansa, Sansa! You're knight will face my knight!"

"Lord Robert," she emphasized, "You have to call me Alayne from here on out."

Sweetrobin with his eyes wide, "Oh right. Sorry, Alayne." he tugged at her wrist and Sansa followed him.

Even though it was early it was still a day and a half to get down all the way castles, at the last way castle Lord Baelish sent word that Brienne of Tarth could be released. A man with the orders started back up the climb. It was midday of the third day when they finally made it to the Gates of the Moon. Sansa hated the gruelling climb of the Eyrie, the castle might seem mystical but they could keep it. She rather the towers of Winterfell than the Giant's Lance any day. The Gates of the Moon was humming, there were so many people she saw while riding up to the back of the castle. She saw hedge knights, sell swords, fighters, so many squires and servants. This tourney would take a week if not longer to determine just who was worthy enough to join the Winged Knights of the Vale. Sweetrobin has told her what the knights would be called in the last way castle. He had metal workers already creating armor and helms for the winners. As they made to the east tower, Sansa was a bit excited that they would just skim the yard to see the fighters that turned out for the event. Sansa dismounted her horse and handed the reins to a handler, Lord Baelish took her in hand. Sansa pulled her hand away but he snatched it again.

"Alayne, what are you doing?" Lord Baelish raised his brow, "I should escort you into the tower."

"I'll be fine, I want to walk in with Lord Robert." Alayne tossed back at him.

Before Lord Baelish could say anything, Lord Robert took her hand and walked past him without saying a word. Sansa let him lead her, it was not in her alias but she did not want to touch Littlefinger again. She looked ahead and saw many people as they past. Sweetrobin was pointing out any knight he recognized, many tipped their head to the lordling. Some laughed and raised a cup in his honor. Alayne curtsied and bowed to some of the famous knights, making Sweetrobin laugh as he bowed to Alayne. She pulled a small kerchief and gave it to Sweetrobin as his "favor" even though he was not competing he accepted it and giggled. Right behind them was a disgruntled but content looking Lord Baelish, saying his good days to the men as they passed them. They approached the entrance to the interior yard, Alayne saw Lothor who was guarding the entrance as per his orders. Probably from Lord Baelish, before Alayne could do something flirtatious to Lothor, Lord Baelish pried her away from Sweetrobin for a moment.

"Hood up," he hissed, "Black hair is fine for allies, I can't say the same for strangers."

Alayne nodded and ripped her arm out of his grip and she pulled her hood up, she walked ahead and caught up with Lord Robert. She breathed deep, trying not to let that infraction on her person get caught up in her eyes. She walked behind the lordling as it was her place, as they walked in many eyes were on them. Sansa figured many of the men here have never seen Lord Robert of the Vale before. She tipped her head down and walked behind him, as swiftly as she could. Some of her hair poured out of the hood as she felt eyes on her, she looked past the edge of her hood and saw a young knight with blonde hair looking at her. Blue eyed, dimples as he gave a half smile. Alayne would smile in reply, wouldn't she? She looked up, remember her reflection and gave a sultry smile back at the young knight. His brow perked up as she turned into the tower. As they moved through the hall and up a set of stairs, she couldn't help but smile one for herself.

 


	7. Sandor III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northerners travel to the Eyrie using the tournament as a smokescreen. Sandor reflects with Podrick about the Lady Sansa. Upon their arrival to the Vale, Podrick does his best to collect intelligence on where the Lady and her knight might be kept during the tourney.

The snows had died down long enough for Podrick to try lighting a fire. He was surrounded by thick, black trunk trees, many sparse of needles as if they had not had enough to eat in the long summer. Podrick struggled to light the dampen sticks, they would not take a spark. Sandor had both horses in hand, reining them in and tying them off to a short tree. He was watching the squire create sparks from his flint, cursing quietly under his breath. Sandor stroked the head of his horse, it had no name but was handsome with his speckled black and grey coat. The horse responded kindly to being petted, the handler mentioned she as not very kind to all her riders but Sandor found no issue with the animal. A growing crunch of snow behind Sandor came a fur suited man with blazing red hair, Tormund with a bundle of dry wood. He stashed some in his pack, wrapped in loose linen. He pushed the squire aside.

"Stop, before you hurt yourself." Tormund pushed him aside and took the flint from his hands, "When the fire starts up, we can burn just about any wood."

In a flash, a fire came alive and Podrick looked relieved. As the small fire grew, Tormund surrounded it with the damp wood to dry it out. He saved the rest of the dry wood, wrapped it up and placed it back into the his saddlebag. It was sun down near a long hill with Moat Cailin behind them, a few men were already setting up a few tents. The fire would start cooking dinner and Sandor found himself looking out at the sunset. He looked around the brightness and saw a few farmhouses, abandoned fields, rusted ploughs scattered around the fence line. The Northerners felt it best to camp before moving toward inhabited land. _What people, it looks deserted._

A few Stark men came back with a large deer and started gutting it and before the sun was completely extinguished behind the abandon, there was deer and bread on every plate in the encampment. About twenty men including Sandor and the right and left hand of the King in the North, all going in covertly. A fortnight and a day ago Jon received a false letter from Sansa. Jon scoffed at the letter, his council present as they read the letter. Sandor was sure it was false. Sansa did not have writing so shabby, she would never use such stern words, her style was grace and not this trite. The letter stated that she would marry a suitor from the Vale hinting heavily it would be Lord Robert. Jon was angry, he slammed his hand on the table and looked away.

"She told me how sickly the lordling is, how she can't stand the idea of marrying him." Jon folded his hands on the table, "If Lord Baelish is making a play, this letter is apart of it. She should have never left home."

A day before they left they received another letter inviting Jon to a tourney in honor of the Lord Robert Arryn, his very distant half nephew. Jon had given Sandor the news, to use to his advantage some how. Unable to leave, with no leaders left he had to stay. The Mormonts left to Bear Island with Davos Seaworth to drum up naval capacities for the North, Glover providing much need backing for at sea's edge. Free folk, taking the old Dreadfort and manning Moat Cailin, Jon could not leave his post in Winterfell. They also could not start a war with an ally, no one had provision like how the Vale did. Eyrie was fortified for years, it could easily starve out the North. Who would ship anything to a solid ice port when the Saltpans were warmer, closer. The coffers of Winterfell were little, they must be smart in their survival. Jon charged Podrick with a letter of reply for the lordling and hoped that they bring back a fat wallet.

Sandor took a deep breath, he had long finished his dinner and was staring out into the dark sky with his back to the fire. Podrick slid up beside him and brought him a cup of ale. Smiling, he was always smiling. Sandor accepted the cup and drank, Podrick was sitting the opposite direction tapping his plate with his fingers. He finished chewing when he looked back at Sandor.

"Reckon we will be met with a fight, Sandor?" Podrick buzzed on, "I've not much practice since Riverrun but I'm glad you're here."

"Why?" Sandor thought maybe he shouldn't encourage him to talk more but found it amusing somehow.

"Well, you're still one of the greatest fighters in all of Westeros." Podrick rambled nervously, "You saved Ser Loras from your brother. You protected Arya from everyone looking for her which was... everyone." Podrick nodding, making light of his own realization. Sandor looked at him as he nodded, he rolled his eyes as he sighed.

"She was well hidden. Smart girl if she was able to walk out of King's Landing undetected as she did." Sandor replied hoping for no more rhetoric after his words.

There was a silence, Podrick prodded the fire and added one of the dried logs. A mist of embers released into the air, the fire crackled as it ate through the damp core of the log. Podrick still sitting beside him, Sandor wondered why. He's not a particularly inviting person nor was he friendly, he had few acquaintances, and no friends. At least, those he would consider a friend. Surely, even his acquaintances don't see their relationship as friendly per say. Still, the young man sat beside him. It had been a long time since anyone wanted to do that. Sandor couldn't recall the last time a soldier wanted to be amiable with him. 

"You think Jon might've been wrong about the letter?" Podrick questioned, looking up at the sky whilst meaning to look into his mind.

"No." Sandor quickly answered the inquiring squire, "He was not wrong. The letter did not sound like the girl."

"Lady Sansa," Podrick corrected, "Shouldn't you speak of her as Lady Sansa?"

Sandor groaned, he regretted taking the ale from the boy, "Yes, Lady Sansa. Happy now?"

Podrick made a different face, it was inquiring upon Sandor and his demeanor. Sandor gave him a rumpled brow as he noticed Podrick making a study of him. Podrick looked away and asked Sandor, "Did you know Lady Sansa well in King's Landing?"

Sandor turned his head, unsure what to say. Knowing her was not exactly what he would call their strange relationship. Sandor was quiet but soon realized his silence was also a tell into his soul, Podrick shifted and asked again, "So, you were familiar with Lady Sansa? I wasn't entirely sure but it makes sense. You were close to her because Joffrey was close to her. I myself-"

"Yes, is that what you want to hear? Of course I am familiar with your Lady Stark, she was in the Red Keep for years letting the tyrant king walk all over her..." Sandor interrupted, slathering each word with harshness. He trailed off, remembering that he let those slights happen. Each one replays behind his eyes, Sandor became a bit sullen.

"I was never very familiar with her," Podrick went on, "I was scared of her to be honest. She was intense and I didn't want to upset her. She was so delicate and yet not so, it was a disguise. A mask. Kind of like you. You mask who you are, like most soldiers do."

"What do you mean?" Sandor fired back, looking a bit insulted.

"I mean, I mean nothing negative. I mean..." Podrick was searching for the words, "Lady Sansa is a lady out there with other people but she was never how she was in the court or gallery as she was in her room, alone. Some days I escorted Lord Tyrion back to his chambers and she was there and she didn't look the same."

"Something in the eyes." Sandor reflectively said, almost as an accident.

"Yeah, something like that," the young squire was relieved some how, "I was afraid I was the only one who saw the lady be that way. Though, she is not the only one who is like that I guess."

Sandor was silent, he was thinking about Sansa's eyes and how getting lost in them was easy. It shouldn't be so easy but it was, staring deeply into her eyes and seeing all the tiny flecks and flaws. She was graceful, well spoken, beautiful, honest to a fault. Too honest when pushed, righteous too. Podrick downed his ale and bid Sandor a good night. Sandor bid him a good night, it was a reflex. It was not in his nature to be this open with someone he barely knew but his nature was an good one. He was not sure what this feeling was, he was lighter. The camp started settling down, the population dwindled until it was just Sandor and the night watch. The wind was biting his exposed cheek as he pulled his cloak closed, urging his eyes to sleep. Sandor rose and made it to his tent, laying down for the night.

In the morning, it was a fast tear down. The bannermen were used to this life, the horses and cart were packed up quickly as they made for the Kingsroad once more. The snows were dying down the further they rode from the North like watching a season turn the land was less choked in cold. The winter will creep soon enough, haunting every branch in the forest and yellowing all the grass. Sandor rode hard, the bannermen were convinced if the Knights of the Vale made it so quickly to Winterfell, they could ride faster than them. Bounding as a group, they watched each other move fast past trees and whipping across the long side of the mountains that start the great Vale.

The days and nights stitched together as Sandor ran through the memories, what was there that was so special, that gripped him tightly like a vice. All the men around him were there for the North, for Winterfell, Podrick for his liege lady, Tormund for his ally and King. Sandor was cynically pious, he could have joined any temple or sept and let go of all these memories. They were just a material possession that weighed on his mind, no longer he had to suffer the stresses of service. A voice in his head, never wanting to let it all go. Making every memory too important, even the bad ones. All the memories bringing more life into his heart, he felt his mind growing outward looking for newness. He could do it all here and now with Winterfell and maybe with her there. Snapping back, he found himself overlooking a ridge. Had it been consuming him this whole time, thinking about what next and what now. All he did before was hoped a sword would run him down, ending his suffering but now there were stakes in living. Something he wanted to keep doing.

The ridge was not too far where Sandor had fell. Reminiscing for a moment, the look on the young wolf's face as she left him to die. He was proud of her but also horrified she left him without mercy. His memory was interrupted as a fighter walked through his sight line. He looked down and saw many knights filing the road, going to the Bloody Gate. The tourney about to start soon, with the amount of warriors making there way in, it would be a week long event, maybe even two. Sandor shook out his daydreaming and went back to the men, they were waiting for orders.

"We can file in just like everyone else." Sandor explained, "They all have banner men and they are all here for the tourney. I see lances and many swords."

"Not to be offensive but perhaps you should consider a disguise," Podrick added, "Sandor Clegane is still a wanted man."

"Are you?" Tormund wide eyed, a bit on the coy side.

"As far as I know." Sandor shot an angry glance at Tormund. The red haired wild man grinned back.

"Damn, the holy man is a wanted man. An outlaw among us." Tormund laughed as he turned to his horse.

"Actually, Tormund. You should change too." Podrick reluctantly exhaled, "This castle has stricter rules than Winterfell. You'll have to change into a formal doublet of some sort." he trailed off as Tormund walked away from him. "Where are you going?"

"Looking for fine clothes." Tormund emphasized, clenching his teeth with a kind of ease. He managed to borrow a spare doublet from a banner man. It had the Stark direwolf emblazoned on the back, one side of the doublet was a dark grey and the other was a lighter grey. It was jarring against his red beard. He wore it anyway, draping his fur jacket on top, opened to see the colors underneath.

Sandor pulled his hair back and donned a helm. It was crude, unfinished but all they had. The Northerners did not have many collections of ornate armor and had to fashion an crude shield just for the joust competition to which Sandor volunteered to compete in. The helm was barrel shaped and originally had an exposed front for the face but the smithy changed the front to house a swinging door to cover the bottom half of the face. The only ornamentation was the simple etching of a wolf head on the side. There was a slit large enough to see Sandor's eyes but was perfect to cover his scars. He turned to Podrick who gave him an approving gesture. They mounted their horses and rode into the High Road with Stark banners flying.

They horses past a few notable houses, a few they did not recognize. Making it through the Bloody Gate wasn't much of a hassle, a relief to everyone in the party. The guests were asked to stay in the base of the mountain called the Gates of the Moon. It was a bulky castle with large turrets and tall battlements. The stones were massive but the fields around the castle were open with short green grasses dotted with a few stray boulders. The mountain came in snuggly around the castle back, the trail from the castle to the Eyrie was behind it too. All contestants would stay there as well. The tournament would mostly be held around the castle. The place was crawling with hedge knights, warriors, big and small. Many if not all were associated with the Lords of the Vale. Just looking around the crowd, Sandor could tell the Starks are the only Northerners invited. As the group moved through checkpoint to checkpoint, they were sorted into a the tower closest the horse stables, furtherest the Eyrie entrance.

They settled into their quarters, it was a large room with connecting bedrooms into a common area. Every house with a large party was given the same treatment. A few men shared rooms, Sandor took to a chamber alone, once inside he took his helm off. It was hot and he was sweaty from wearing it all the way into the castle. Breathing and letting the cooler air hit his skin, it was only now apparent to him the risk he is putting himself in for one girl. Was it going to be worth it, he was not sure. He hadn't seen her since Blackwater. She was far younger then and he was far worse, unstable, a fear monger he was. He stared off into the corner of the room trying to centre himself. _Does she even remember me?_ Remembering how harsh his steely words crushed her, he was so fascinated with her. He never told anyone his cruel words were just shielding himself. A distance that he preferred between himself and other humans. Septon Ray it was a trait Sandor should work on.

Podrick knocked at his door, "Dinner is here, the servants are gone so its safe to come out. I'm going to find out what the schedule is, I'll be back with a report." and as quick as that, he heard Podrick's footsteps disappear into the wall.

 _Loyal and quick, Winterfell is lucky to have him._ Sandor thought. He exhaled one more time and closed his eyes, trying to think of a fixed point. Anything would do. He focused and thought of Sansa's profile, the day of Joffrey's name day tournament. The image looping, she was staring with a blank expression, hating every single moment stuck in the tyrant king's company. He thought of the shape of her nose and how they perfectly connected to her rosy lips. Her neck was long and creamy, might even be creamy. Sandor shook his head and pulled his head back from the recesses of his memory. If she really is here against her will, if something has changed then Sandor has a chance to redeem himself for all the good he could've done. That expression could change, back to the one of her applauding his victory during the Hand's tourney. The rose was in her hand, flopping as she forgot she had one. _Did she know, I saved him for her? It's too bad he's dead._  Sandor rose and left for the dinner table.

The night grew across the once bright sky, making shadows darker as the Stark men waited for the return of the slight squire. A door opened quickly, Podrick was sweating. He seemed disturbed. "Sit man, tell us!" a few men piped up. A man poured Podrick a draft of ale. Podrick sat with the men, he drank and caught his breath.

"Trouble, my friends. The letter is false." Podrick nearly teary eyed having slammed half of the draft, "I overhead a few knights of the Vale. They must be in Lord Baelish's employ, they knew so much."

"And?" Sandor angrily waiting for him to catch his breath.

"And, I picked up a schedule. They were doing the same. They were speaking loudly and jesting." Podrick exasperated, "One said in the little bit I heard that the bitch knight was in a skycell. They walked off and I tried to listen to more but they left to a higher chamber. I could not follow."

"He called her a bitch!" Tormund stood in fury.

"What knight?" Sandor asked with a concerned look, slightly confused.

"Brienne. My girl." Tormund looked to the sky, a statement made proud, "I have to save my girl."

Sandor scowled, he remembered the bitch. Brienne, the knight from Tarth who felled him, nearly ending him on the very cliffs outside the Bloody Gate. Sandor was feeling surly about the report. Tormund was torrid, wildly moving about the room, throwing shadow punches. A few banner men were attending to him, trying to calm him and not rouse the rest of the occupants. Podrick was not finished as he tapped Sandor on his shoulder.

"One more thing," Podrick said under his breath, "The tower the knights walked to is at the end of the large dining hall, near the back of the keep. I believe the high born families are staying there. It would be where Lady Sansa would be if she is allowed to attend the tourney."

Sandor was silent, his eyes to the floor as Podrick spoke directly into his good ear. _'If allowed to attend'_ felt very possessive, threatening even. Podrick drank again and Sandor sat up. The tourney was in a few days, the highest way castle was a few days climb. They needed confirmation.

"I also managed a few words with competitors. Many are under the impression that if they rank high or win, they will be offered a knighthood to Lord Robert." the squire spoke, "If we cannot devise a plan from here, you could win a position to rise above the other castles. You could ascend and find Lady Sansa and Brienne of Tarth."

"They will make me the moment I win." Sandor shifting in his chair, "Even if they took the winners immediately to the highest castle, they would make me there and kill me in the most inescapable castle of the Eyrie. I could run but not for long and I don't feel up for another long fall." he drank a long gulp of ale.

Podrick looking down into his cup, letting his head hang low. He was gripping it harshly, his fingernails turned from a fleshy pink to white. Sandor noticed and saw he was still beading sweat from his temple, eyes wide and awake. The boy squire was doing what he could.

"Can't solve everything in a night." Sandor said as he looked away, "Tourney isn't for another few days, anything could change." With that, he rose and left for his chamber. Sandor was pleased with new information, that they were not there in vain but it still depressed him. She was here, she wasn't safe, he was as helpless if not more so than when they were in King's Landing. He harkened back to a time he could see her pass the halls of the Red Keep and he could spy her from afar. Head down, trying to be small, she would walk to the Godswood, to tea with the Queen to wit he was present, crossing the yard and observing the ships over the battlements. How lonely it was for her, so much more lonelier now, they took her knight away. Littlefinger can do that here, a master player toying with people like a cat and string.

Sandor sat on the edge of the bed, pondering what would come next. Trying to run the gambit, if he lost they would exit the castle too early. They are riding under the Stark colors so he should rank high, he was hopeful that since Winterfell was being represented that the Lady Sansa would make an appearance. Does everyone in the Eyrie know Sansa was in the castle? Too many questions that made Sandor's head spin. After all that thinking, Sandor almost thought to just scale the castle and take her back single handedly like a knight from one of those books she loves so well, he was not a knight and this was not a story book. Sighing, he fell back on to his bed and slept the road off.

Morning rose and the night was dreamless. Just shades of black and grey filling his eyelids. The common room of the Northerners quarters was bustling, the men were prepping lances, fixing sparing swords, sharpening their castle forged swords, feathering arrows, not one man was not moving. Sandor was bandaging his head, trying to find a middle ground to hide his identity. Tormund walked up behind him and offered assistance. He pulled the bandages off Sandor's head and instead pulled the silk shawl from the borrowed doublet. He wrapped it around his head, folding to create a headdress, his eyes boxed by the fabric and the scars mostly covered.

"We need an excuse for wrapping your head. Up north, we wrap because of the wind. Here..." Tormund explained, "Here it's for vanity. What say you?"

"I get your meaning." Sandor angrily sighed, "Just tell them I'm a leper. No one will approach me if you do. That could be an advantage."

"Fair," his red hair swaying as he deeply nodded, "It's a good cover for you, Holy Man."

"Stop calling me that." Sandor sputtered from behind the cloth.

"Pious, you said. You believe in the Seven. Maybe start speaking it out there." Tormund walked off, "They should believe you're different. Saved."

Sandor shook his head, to be saved by religion. _I was saved but it was humans who saved me, not the gods. Everyone is saying the gods have a plan._  Sandor was perturbed, "I don't see it." he muttered under his breath.

The men were moving his equipment to the side of the room, a sprinting Podrick came dashing in view. He was holding a piece of paper and a far happier expression than before. He ran up to Tormund and pulled him back to where Sandor was sitting. The two sat down around Sandor.

"The night before, I was terribly maddened I had not found better information." Podrick started excitedly, "This day the child Lord Robert Arryn will arrive and he brought a high born woman with him. His mother dead, it must be Lady Sansa."

Podrick flattened the piece of paper, it was a crudely drawn map, "Here is the tower Lord Robert will stay in, we are here on the other side of the dining hall. Out this door is the yard," he pointed vigorously around the map he drew, "The tourney will take time, every area is not as large as it could be so they can only host one event a day. There will be time."

"Which means?" Tormund asked, raising a brow.

"Means, we have time to extract the Lady Sansa and find Brienne." Podrick smirked, "We just need to find where Lady Sansa is being held in that tower. As for Brienne, she is in a skycell and that is all the way up the third and last way castle. Someone will have to go and find her, I don't know how fortified the last castle is."

"I'll do it. I'll find Brienne." Tormund exclaimed, he rose from his seat.

Sandor stood beside him, "No, you won't. It's too risky."

"You can't stop me." the wildling puffed his chest up.

"She knew the risks." looking down on Tormund, "One extraction at a time. If we try and do both, we'll get caught. This place is teeming with knights not loyal to the North. They would not feel terrible slaying someone like you in front of their Lords and jape about it after. You're blood won't even be cold when they laugh and mock you."

Sandor spat the venom no one would admit aloud, any misstep among the group and they were done. Talking about Sansa was problematic enough, if anyone knew who they were speaking about, it could be the end for everyone in the room. Tormund dropped his head, his anger still railing inside of him. He turned away from them, almost as if he would run out of the door and disappear into thin air looking for the maid of Tarth. The wild man would be more like the knight in songs than any man in that room. A tinge ran through Sandor's chest, he bore the sudden pain without changing his face. Someone had to turn this around.

"We can do both Tormund, we just have to be that much more careful." Podrick defied Sandor, his voice was wavering and weak but he was her squire.

Tormund stopped fading and walked back, he took Sandor and Podrick by the necks and pulled their heads together. Sandor did not like this closeness. He muttered, "A community is what Jon gave us and I thank him."

He released them and walked away and out the door. Podrick about to follow him but Sandor held him back. "Leave him alone." Podrick gave him a worried look but sat down.

Midday came and Tormund had not come back, Sandor walked out of the quarters to look around, still wearing his headdress. The plucky squire tailed him as they weaved through the crowded halls. They made for a high look out along a battlement, they looked down to see the people. Some men were practising in the large yard north of the gate, some were good, most were good enough. Sandor let out a tired sigh, he looked down at all the fighters he would have to put down before even coming close to his Northern girl. The tournament would be long, he would need to steel himself every night, a long week ahead he needed to pick out the best contenders.

"There," Podrick pointed down at the yard, a sandy haired man strode in with an entourage. Tall, lean, handsome, many things song knights are but this one was particularly good at fighting. "His name is Harry. He might just be the next in line for the Vale. Some call him the young falcon..."

Harry strode in the yard, many got out of his way. His clothes were pristine, he had his hand on his sword moseying around other fighters but never speaking to them, he was taking notes like Sandor was above him.

"Over there, see that man. He's nearly your size." Podrick whipped around and pointed at another fighter, this one was very big but not nearly as big as Sandor. Younger though, he had dark hair, modest armor, he was standing near an entrance of the tower with high born lords and ladies. Looking about him, still on guard, on duty. "He's good at everything like you are. He's also with Lord Baelish and Lord Robert's party."

Sandor looked intensely at the large warrior, not sure why he was on guard. Was he expecting to fight someone, right there and then. Just as Sandor thought of turning around and walking among the fighters he saw something from the other corridor, a woman walking just ahead an even more familiar man, it was Lord Baelish. Just in front of them was a small boy, dressed in baby blue robes, his cloak was silver and white. Baelish in his dreadfully high collared jacket, dark and trimmed. _Typical._  Sandor shook his head a little. But the woman, she was in an olive green cloak with her hood up, a few tresses fell down an unnatural darkness. She was in a familiar plum violet gown, a pattern of dark vines wrapping around her, two brassy dress pins that resembled wings. He knew those pins anywhere, he'd seen them so often in King's Landing, she really took a shine to them. He took a breath in searching for words, Podrick shifted to see what he was looking at, moving around the stones to see clearly a changed Sansa Stark walking from the corridor and quickly into the tower entrance.

"But, her hair." Podrick murmured, "it's black."

 


	8. Sandor IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day of events at the tournament of Winged Knights and Sandor must place high in his first event. He must establish his presence without anyone finding out his true identity.
> 
> In a chance meeting with Alayne Stone, he helps her take in a distressed Brienne as he tries to convince her to leave now while she had the best cover.

It was morning and the start of the Tournament of Winged Knights, Sandor sat solemnly in his chambers running over the schedule for today's events. It was foggy and cold, the chill sticking to clothes and boots could make a grown man shiver. There were merchants and minstrels outside the castle walls. Sandor peered through a window, there was more people than he expected but all he could have hoped for. More people meant more mess, chances to create collateral chaos. He tore away and wrapped his head, the same way Tormund showed him days ago. It was a good and snug fit, much better than just wrapping bandages around his head like a field patient. He had done it so many times since that day, Sandor felt he was an expert. The wild man said the free folk do it when travelling in icy wind, running through open fields of ice and snow that hardened flat and reflect the sunlight as strongly as a mirror. Sandor found he was referring to Tormund as the wild man since in return he called him the holy man. It was the truth and yet a jab at him, complaining he never once saw him be pious in his presence. Sandor was pious alone, he didn't like spectators watching him pray.

He was alone now and took to a knee. He bowed his head and clutched a small medallion, it belonged to the septon that saved him. Sandor thought most warriors would be praying to the Warrior so instead he prayed to the Stranger that he be spared, that he stay alive and his foes be brought to death. _Can't die just yet._  He had so much longer to go, whatever that meant.

Sandor emerged to find the rest of the men gathered by the common table. They were quiet, worried, they knew the plan but there was no end. He looked at their faces, what did they want him to say. Perhaps a rousing speech, Sandor was no good at being the inspiration. He barely aspired to be like the heroes from books, having met a few of them. But something must be said, he looked over at the energetic Podrick who seemed on the outs. More worry stitched into his face, Sandor worried too but he was thankful to be covered. Break the ice, pull out the words and try.

"Gather 'round," Sandor spoke, the men came around and stood in a circle around him. "This is the bottom of the bleeding world, we can only go up from here. If we fail, we do it with honor and a sword in our hands." Sandor gritted desperately searching for words, "But we won't. No, we're better than the dead, were still here." the men shifted, giving approving looks as Sandor finished his speech, "We will win this fucking tourney, save the Lady, and return home. Fuck the Vale."

"Fuck the Vale!" the men shouted, as they raised fists and swords. Podrick smiled and patted the first man near him on the back and then the next man. He managed to make it through the crowd and he slapped Sandor on his back, "Great speech."

Sandor stood frozen, he turned his head slightly to Podrick, "It's what I prayed for. It wasn't a speech." feeling a bit confused and somewhat sheepish, trying hard to crawl back in himself.

"It was still good." Podrick assured him as he walked on to pick up a long bow, quiver, and a pair of wine skins tied together. Podrick turned and shouted back at Sandor, "Let's go win."

Sandor smirked behind his headdress and caught up with the Northerners. There were times he wasn't quite sure what was missing when he conversed with other soldiers. Just for a moment, it seemed like that was apart of the puzzle Sandor was recovering. Pulling back pieces that were there, trying on new pieces to see if they fit in the grooves left behind from whatever was torn away. He wasn't sure he liked it but he was sure he didn't dislike it.

As they exited, more houses and the ilk merged together in the hall. Many fighters brandishing beautiful bows, newly polished shields with their house sigils etched over silver, a few squires with house sigils embroidered large on their backs and sleeves. A few novices familiarizing themselves with their breakfast again in the corners and into refuse barrels. The smell of nerves but it never bothered Sandor. Some of the Vale guards corralling the fighters through the main entrance. The interior yard was left for practice and pavilions where as a grand arena was erected just outside the main gates to the castle. For today and tomorrow, it would be hosting the archery event. Long rows of seats for lords and ladies, railing for the poor, and a raised platform for the high borns.

"How is your bow arm anyway?" Podrick came jogging up beside him, holding out his quiver full of arrows and long bow.

"Fine enough." Sandor gritted, it was fine but enough was the problem. His archery was not as sharp as before, he just needed to place better than other competitors. Perhaps better than Sandor doesn't mark himself by placing too high. Attention too early in the game would put a target on the rest of the Northerners, they would be watched and interrupted too often. His face twitched and he let his brow fall down over his eyes. He almost felt as if he was fixing the tournament in his mind but how could he, Sandor could lose it all if he wasn't careful. He remembered the sullen Jon, with his sentiment of the coffers being low in Winterfell. Maybe a few purses would help when winter really came barreling in.

On the green, the targets were arranged 30 yards away. Sandor limped lightly to the line, his leg giving him trouble this morning. A few other archers to his left and right. He stood a foot taller than most. He saw the knight that Podrick had pointed out, Harry was it? Gleaming in painted leather and speaking to no one. Harry was staring out at the targets from the sidelines. Sandor looked away, the targets were painted white and red on large hay bales, they seemed so tiny. _I should've practiced this much._ Sandor felt a pulling at his lungs, worry was setting in. Hopefully a few would fuck up their shots. He just need to place high, he didn't need to win. Sandor shook out his hands, trying to let the pressure off. Thinking about the last time he used a bow, was it hunting with Joffrey? _Seven hells._ He recalled having a boar in his eye line, it was mid sized and a bit far but he could've hit it. The king was howling how he wanted to kill something and Sandor felt a bit annoyed, he was not nearly drunk enough to deal with his highness. He shot the arrow just past the beast and watched it run, the King ran after it with another knight on horseback. Sandor was just thankful for a moment of quiet. He led Stranger, his steadfast war horse by the reins slowly behind the chasers. No reason to run after a crowned pig.

Sandor stood and notched his arrow. The little man out in the middle of the field had announced their heat and he stood with ten men, none of which looked especially good at archery. The first man pulled and missed, the second man hit near the bottom. _Not enough height._ It was his turn, he pulled back and breathed out. The arrow when straight into the target, middle ring slightly to the left. It was not an impressively aimed shot but the arrow was halfway into the target. _Too much power, let off it dog._ The rest of the heat had a few troubles. By the end, it was Sandor and one other who managed to hit a near bullseye. He gave a breath of relief, Sandor still had some game left in him yet. Getting nearly the middle in his third shot was all he could hope for to place high. He was tense but needed to relax for the next heat.

Podrick was just behind the sideline, the archers who lost were sitting and commiserating around a small fire. Podrick passed a wine skin to Sandor who drank, he spoke, "Well that wasn't so bad was it? The second group is going up already." Podrick made a gesture back out to the arena centre. A familiar blonde knight reigned in the last spot. The heat looked a bit more formidable in competition but he was hitting near centre. The crowd cheered for him greatly. Eventually, Harry the falcon deftly won his heat and there was a loud applause for him. Sandor looked back and saw a familiar sight, the raven haired maiden applauded excitedly from the stands. She was sat between the young Lord Robert and Lord Baelish. The young knight bowed to the stands and left. As she sat down, she giggled with the young lordling. _Guess she got better at lying._  He hoped. He wished she didn't have to.

The winds picked up after lunch as Sandor made for his second heat. There were higher born fighters this time, a few with well worn in bows. Possibly hunters, it didn't matter to Sandor. If he placed in the top five archers it would bestow him and his squires with an invite to the first winners feast with the high born men and women. Every night, the high born spectators have been privy to the greater dining hall of the keep. Only the high born knights could freely attend, everyone else had to earn an invite. Without the Lord of Winterfell, the Northerners were shut out. Sandor's tactical approach was not for dinner but to send a message to Sansa. Besides, he couldn't eat and keep his headdress on without spoiling it.

The second heat was closer, a few more men made the target and the shoot off was intense. Sandor took a deep breath before notching, he was with three other shooters all of whom were from higher born families than himself. The men at the end of the shooting lane had moved the target another five yards for a total of 35 yards. The first man had shot just right of centre, the second man did the same nearly splintering his arrow. Sandor pulled his bow string and looked with both eyes, he took a deep breath in and released as he let loose his arrow. It made it closer to the middle, enough to beat the previous two shooters. The longer they shot arrows, the more comfortable Sandor was becoming, regaining a lost skill. The last shooter placed his arrow just that much closer to the centre than Sandor but it did not matter as the top two finishers made to the finals. A relief to Sandor. The wind was picking up and making shooting arrows a bit difficult. There was a gentle applause at the end of their heat, neither top finishers were of great merit to the people of the Vale. They were waiting for the next heat to see the more popular champions of the Vale compete.

Sandor hung back to watch the set, he needed to see which of the last shooters he would need to beat. He was joined by Podrick who stood beside him with his hood up. He looked out to the stands and the dark haired Sansa sat with the lordling, pointing at the men on the line, whispering their names to the lordling. This heat was made up of great households if she is able to identify them. Sandor glanced over the men at the shooting line, the first man notched and sent an arrow just above the bullseye. Better than the first shooter in Sandor's heat. The next shooter went, then the next, then the next. All of them were shooting near centre. _Shit._ Sandor could not rely on just being good enough at the bow, he needed to be better. The large man in Lord Baelish's employ made his mark, nearly a bullseye. A long sigh and gasp erupted from a part of the crowd. Sandor was unsure if the large dark haired warrior was well known. Last, Harry shot. He marked the bullseye, there was a big cheer after he did. Sandor saw Sansa rise again, clapping her hands along side of the rest of the Vale. He did notice while she rose, the Lord Robert did not. He did not even applaud and wore a grim menacing scowl on his face. _Something to think about, maybe._

"Well," Podrick said harshly under his breath, "That is an interesting predicament."

The final semi final heat ended and as predicted the young falcon was into the final. Sandor stood still, sweeping his eyes around the dispersing crowds keeping a keen eye on the archers that advanced with him into the final round. Harry made first slot but the second man was the dark haired warrior. Podrick had learned his name, Lothor Brune, he was not just in Lord Baelish's employ but a knight of Harrenhal. Sandor scoffed, the castle was a ruin and filled with prisoners of war and their torturers. _A castle full of screams._ As Sandor folded his arms letting his eyes follow the large Brune, a short boy stood before them. Dark haired, sickly but dressed in very fine clothes he was examining Sandor's height and build, Podrick froze and hit Sandor in the arm. His attention reverted back.

"I am not familiar with the Stark champion." the lordling spoke freely.

"Your grace." Podrick bowed, "How may I be of service?"

The lordling poked the masked Sandor in the gut, he then walked around him. Podrick jumped out of the way as he made a full circle around the enormous warrior. His expression was inquisitive but he had a knitted brow, confused by how such a giant warrior was unknown. "What is your name knight?"

Sandor was annoyed but he wasn't sure if he should speak. He had to pull off a far nicer voice than he preferred. Alas, what was his name? Sandor was not ready to change gears from a soldier to a poet. Podrick stepped back quickly and spoke firmly, "Our champion has taken a vow of silence. You see, he's a holy man. Very pious, your grace. He speaks to no one, not even his own mother... if she lived, gods rest her soul."

"I'm very sorry for your loss, ser." Lord Robert added, "You then, what is his name?"

Podrick froze, his mouth slightly ajar he was just as hung up on inventing a name as Sandor was a moment ago. A figure appeared behind the lordling, it was the raven haired maiden. She spoke with grace, "Lord Robert, the Stark champion is a Karstark bastard. His name is Canin." she hooked her arm into his, "And if you keep gawking at the warrior, people around him might feel you have an issue with the pious man." the lies dripping out of her mouth. It made Sandor's burns twitch in rage but it was all a guise, to stay alive. He hated this part, who would want to live with dancing this mummer's farce everyday. Sandor looked intensely at the two of them, he was trying to see if there was any part of Sansa lurking behind her eyes. She glanced up at Sandor and for a moment, he held her gaze. Her lips parted a sliver, the lordling still amazed at Sandor's size.

"He's just as big as Lothor. Maybe even bigger!" Lord Robert blurted out, "I would hire him just to see him throw bad men from the moon door!"

Lord Robert's voice broke their gaze, "Well maybe he will rank high enough that you can make him a Winged Knight." she happily conspired openly, "He can stand next to Ser Lothor."

"You are very well versed in your champions, my lady." Podrick bowed, "May I ask what the maiden's name is?"

"This maiden's name is Alayne Stone." she curtsied, "Good day, sers." The maid pulled the lordling away and they made for the castle gates. She was giggling and merry making, just before she was out of ear shot she looked back at the two of them. Just a glance back, she was still in there, somewhere.

Sandor felt as if his hearing was shot, it was cold and soundless. The image around him blurring into a colorless haze. Trying to describe the feeling was difficult, a need to have a constant, to anchor in the feeling of helplessness he was feeling as she glanced back. Mixing into the thin air, clouds of water misting over his lips and through the silk of his headdress, masking his expression of realization. He was seeing her in a new light, but shades and tints changing her situation. A confirmation of crisis, as simple as a look. Repeating in his mind's eye, he was wondering if he had what it takes to win it all back. Standing at the base of the mountain, the climb is so high.

Podrick nudged Sandor, "Let's go. We are in the final heat. We are so close to get to eat with the classy folks." he japed but he was happy. It's true the food would be far more extravagant than what they pushed on the lesser houses competing. Many courses, superior wine, music, and romantic buggery Sandor was jaded against. Dinner around a fire and the quiet of night felt more stunning than socializing with people you hate.

Sandor watched the young man walk into the gate. He was standing alone in the arena, thinking of what just transpired. All that was predicted and said was coming to life, a stream of similar formed thoughts among many. Sansa needed to get out, she was lying about everything but the look she gave Sandor was truth. It was the same eyes she gave him the night of Blackwater. She wanted to leave but could not leave with him. It was his fault anyway, why would any young woman leave with a warrior covered in enemy blood and the grime of war. The night green flame lit up the bay, they couldn't be more opposite of each other and yet they created a balance, their existences felt fated. She needed him and could not say, he needed her but could not say. An entirely different dance than that of dragons. Taking a deep breath, he started to exit the arena. He looked at the empty stands and thought if winning their applause was apart of the game, he would start to climb up that ladder. He needed to be better. He walked up to the gate, still not a soul. Sandor took his bow and arrows out to the yard, very few men even as he past through the gate and corridor. Not a soul he could see, Sandor let fly arrows into the target. Working slights every time, looking for his bullseye again. It was always harder since his burned side affected his aim, always having to take it in account when breathing out. Firing another arrow into the target. Five arrows surround the elusive centre, he walked up and pulled them out to fire them again.

He breathed out, pushing out all the noises that night apparent was settling around him. Torches lit, he heard dull sounds of music and laughter from the corridors and the dinner hall. Sandor closed his eyes bringing his bow down, arrow still notched. He concentrated, he needed a calm place to send the arrow. He was stirring for a memory, shifting his feet on the cold ground he thought of the morning he saw Arya Stark practicing her damn water dance. Although completely useless in a fight, Sandor saw the beauty in knowing it. Her foot work was sharp, she might not be able to strong hand an opponent down but he bet she could run fast. Thinking about her movements, she concentrated on every step. He remembered watching from the hill, he thought she might be dancing. Swinging her sword from one side to the other, her arm behind her back, unblinking. A swishing noise, her thin blade cutting air with ease, he would think of that noise. Staying his mind on it he opened his eyes, bringing his bow back up to his eyes, he pulled back looking at the target. Needle windmilling in his mind, it would be one thing she would give him, a warrior's grace. He let loose his arrow and it hit its mark, dead centre.

"Nice shot." a voice from behind him, lightly clapping.

Sandor turned around and saw a tall silhouette, one nearly as tall as him. He stepped out, it was the dark haired ser, Lothor Brune. Sandor stilled, he nearly forgot he was wearing a headdress. He relaxed a bit and turned back to the target, the man stayed, he heard the creak of wood as he leaned against a beam. Sandor notched and drew, steadying his shot, he heard the man sigh, "Practicing won't do you any good. If you weren't good today then you won't be good tomorrow."

Sandor stopped, pulled down his bow string and looked straight ahead. Does he speak to the man, by now the lordling could've told his high lords and ladies that he was as silent as a mute. He heard foot steps behind him, turning he saw the man pull up beside him with a bow. Lothor notched an arrow and drew back his bow string, he blinked once and breathed out as the arrow went flying into the target. A bullseye, seemingly easy to the unknown knight. Was this intimidation, it wasn't working, Sandor's brow twitched wildly. He pursed his lips and dropped his brow.

"So you are silent," said Lothor as he hooked his bow over his shoulder, "The little Lord Robert mention as much. Champion of Winterfell."

Sandor kept his narrowed eyes on him, he wasn't angered by the man but angry about the title. It sounded queer in the night air, plucking all the strings that clashed into a bad melody. He took a breath, Sandor hugged his bow and put his weight on one leg, a small shake in his quiver made a hollow sound as they both stood in silence looking at the target, two arrows in the centre.  _Seven hells, something or someone break this silence lest I leave looking like a green boy._

"Ser Lothor!" a voice calling the man, "Where are you Ser Lothor?!" it sounded like the cracking voice of a pubescent teenaged faced lordling. Lothor sighed loudly, Sandor heard it. Without a doubt, he was running from his master. Sandor surprised he could sympathize, he guessed not many warriors endure the wills of powerful high born children. Sandor remembered being at the beckon call of the Lannister family, Cersei and her dominance over every other high born family in the realm. Children minding not just because he was their shield but because there were enough enemies against the crown. Perhaps many made by the mad Queen and her endless demands to take down the few who would laugh at the gold lions of Casterly Rock. Tailing a drunken King and later, striking men down to shield a tyrant child king. All things done for money and purpose but all done out of vanity and lack of sense. Sandor wondered when Lothor would break, it took a green fire and burning dead men to push Sandor over the line. Leaving in the only way that made sense that night. The sickly Lord Robert might not be a tyrant yet but he is grating. It was easy to see, made blatant by the whining in his voice, the way he acted the child and never the man he was so clearing growing into. Cracks in his voice, nearly a foot under Sansa, someone should slap the lordling smart.

Lothor looked back at Sandor as he turned to the corridor, he bid him a good night and walked back into shadows. Sandor stood a bit confused, wheeling over old memories of unimportant significance but glad he did not have to relive them now. Choosing who he shields with his life was finally his choice alone. Sandor walked to the target and pulled the arrows. He almost pulled Lothor's arrow but left it. He could only hope for a third place finish tomorrow but knew he might fall in the ranking. He might even be last in the final heat. Not looking great, he must place high if not for the next event but he was now a champion with a story. How long could they keep it up, he almost wish he had spoke to the lordling. Terrifying him would've been easier.

In the night, he dreamt of shadows darker than night sky. It was moving over stone and tapestry, in a tower somewhere, here? It grew wide and thin all in one movement, passing through cracks and snuffing out torches as it past. A musk of cloves and green mint filled the air, the shadow moved as it grew darker over a door, over a handle, shaking it fiercely, dust puffing out of the metal hinges. It shook, it slammed on the solid wood, bolts falling out of the door frame, the metal handle jiggling sharply. The door grew smaller and smaller until Sandor opened his eyes. He rose, sitting up against the wall and tenting his knees on the bed. He rested his arms on his knees and hung his head, the dream felt like it was just on the surface of him. Being awake and being asleep all at once. Sandor closed his eyes, making sure the vision was not there any longer. Just darkness, he pushed color into his mind, trying to lighten his mood. Oranges, green, gold, trying to think of the turning trees like the ones through the forest by the Twins, trying to think of the yellow grass of Clegane Keep the day his left. Trying and failing, it was just color and nothing else. He was going to shoot poorly, the men out there will judge him for it, and she will not applaud him.

It was early, Sandor dressed and walked out into the common room, not a soul in sight. He walked out with his disguise and saw a few people milling around. A cook, a few servants, many squires. He wondered if Podrick was buzzing around, stopping himself for a moment. _He's not even my squire._ Sandor walked out to the back side of the castle and saw the snaking trail from the Eyrie, there was a small convoy coming down from the trail from afar. _Even they won't be here for another half hour._ The trail was so long and winding, he couldn't imagine the time it took to just get to the first way castle. _Fuck that._ He turned to the tall tower, the one Sansa walked into that midday. He looked up at the tower thinking of a folk tale he over heard the septa teach the young Lannister daughter. Something about a maiden trapped in a tower, long braided hair that a knight could climb to rescue her. He groaned, folk tales were as bad as he remembered but the thought stayed for a long moment. If it were real, it was no wonder why the hopeful dream. A dream answer to a terrible situation but Sandor knew, a person could be incredibly hopeful and the outcome could still be worse than anyone imagined.

The wind was rolling in from the sea, breaking and dividing over the rocks and peaks of the Vale. Perhaps he had been standing there to long but Sandor had not noticed the raven haired Alayne standing near him. Startled he stepped back from her immediately, she smiled, "Scared of a little lady as myself, ser?" her eyes half moons she walked closer to him, "Or are you dreaming of becoming a high lord of the Vale?"

Sandor wide eyed, he was not sure if he should say anything. He simply stood straight and looked straight at her. She laughed and pulled her cloak around her as a gust of strong wind pulled her hood down. Her hair wildly tossed into the air, black and messy, the wind died down and it all settled on her shoulders and back. Alayne freed a hand and brushed the hair away from her face. The dark curls framing her lightly sun kissed face, she was still smiling at Sandor, unknowing it was him. Sandor turned toward the trail, the same convoy was closer now and he could make out a few riders. Alayne touched his arm and forced him to turn back around, "I don't know who you are but you are here with my brother's men. Why won't you acknowledge me? Surely you must know."

Gritting his teeth, Sandor had to calm his nerves before speaking. Something the Septon Ray said, maybe try to recite something mentally before speaking. Sandor thought it naive, he counted down instead. He looked at Alayne and spoke softly, "And you never will if you stay stuck here."

Alayne's smile faded quickly, her eyes hardened in a second as she stared back at Sandor's eyes. She stood, never moving just staring, her hands were clutched around her cloak near her heart. Examining his eyes, Sandor knew she was trying to connect them in her memory and as much as his body wanted to stay staring he tore his gaze away. He walked around the maiden and started toward the yard again when the convoy of men from the trail called out to the two of them. Sandor looked back and saw a positive picture, surrounded by other knights on horses he saw a familiar tuft of blonde hair. Brienne of Tarth on a horse, she was in her boiled leather but she was nearly slumped over the horse reins in her hands. Alayne ran out to the horses and Sandor followed behind her. The horses stopped and they pulled Brienne off. Sandor propped her up on her feet, pulling an arm over his shoulders. She mumbled but it was inaudible.

"Oh please, pick her up Ser Canin." Alayne cried, a few streams of tears fell from her cheeks.

Canin picked up the massive Brienne and managed to bring her into the tower. Alayne led the way as she ran ahead of the veiled Sandor. They walked into a room with hanging dresses and a good fire going, it was definitely Sansa's chambers. She pulled back the sheets on a bed and he lay her careful on the feather bed. Luck be that is was Sandor who saw her come down from the mountain, if Tormund was here, they would have been exposed. Alayne tied her hair into a loose bun, she pulled off her cloak from her shoulders and brought a candle closer to Brienne's face. She was malnourished, parched and very weak looking. Her hands were white and she was shivering. Canin was standing still in one spot as Alayne wove around him, pulling things from her chest and drawers. Feeling so useless, he could just grab both of them now and leave the tournament. As she moved about, she grabbed Canin's hand and put a clean linen cloth in them. Her hand ran right past his forefinger and the underside of his thumb, bluntly past the scars on his hands from holding the Tarth woman's sword.

"Please ser, if you could rip some bandages." Alayne kindly asked. She was lightly trying to rouse Brienne awake, she was slipping in and out of consciousness. Mumbling still, she grabbed Alayne's hands. She had a hard time focusing, he thought the hair color might confuse her. Certainly seeing a man with his face hidden was not a kind image to wake to.

He paused and looked straight at Alayne, "Why are we still here? We could just leave, you and the knight." he stressed as his teeth clenched over the words, "What are we waiting for?"

"In front of them I will call you Canin to protect you and the rest of my brother's men," she frowned harshly, "But you will tell me your name. Your true name, ser."

"What is a name if there is freedom to take, you wanted out of here didn't you or was the letter not a lie." Canin spoke freely, "It's that easy."

"Brienne is ill and unable to move," Alayne spat back at him, a fierceness that wasn't there before, "And I am not here to insult the Vale and have them knocking on the North's door. Bloodying the snows of Winterfell. Until she can stand and until I can leave without raising the ire of the Lord Robert, I might have to play this game until I can walk out of the Bloody Gate as myself. And so, you know who I am, who are you?"

A chamber maid and a white haired Vale maester came walking into the room noisily, the maid had a large basin of steaming water and the maester a cabinet of medicine. They both rose from hanging over the maid knight, Sandor scoffed and walked out of the room. She called back at him, "Wait!"

Sandor started walking faster down the corridor, he could hear her footsteps behind him. A chance wasted, he could have brought Brienne to a Winterfell horse and had them both ride out of the keep. The longer he walked, the more he thought with peril. With what supply and how would the bitch from Tarth protect her? _She doesn't have her sword. Her Oathkeeper._ Sandor grunted, mad he remembered her bloody sword name. As he made it into the yard again, he felt a hand on his arm again. He knew he should tear his hand away from hers but he stilled himself, there were more people milling about now. A few hedge knights crowding around a fire, she recoiled her hand quickly and Sandor looked just over his shoulder. Her head was down, she was without her cloak. Not sure how to proceed, he just needed this encounter to end now.

"Say what you want." his voice rocky and sharp.

"Thank you anyway," Alayne said in shaky tones, "We argued but I am still thankful, ser."

"Don't call me ser." Sandor replied regretfully. He turned and headed back to the quarters, he didn't look back. Too afraid she would recognize him. Overthinking everything was new to Sandor, it made his head ache and hot with ideas. He needed to eat and to steady his concentration, now more than ever he needed to place in the top five. He wanted to speak with her again but he was going to pass this task on to Podrick. _Seven hells woman._

At the least he had good news to bring back to the wild man.

 


	9. Sansa V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne and Sansa trade off mummers work to keep the lords around her happy, particularly bonding with the young Lord Robert. During the archery event, she tries to remember who the Winterfell Champion might be. She is later put to a mental test as she is given a chance to have her knight again.
> 
> In a chance encounter with the Champion, she drills him about his identity.

The noise from the stands was raucous, everyone who was attending had worn very colorful frocks, fur stolls and beautiful pelts. Some with highly decorative hats, a few children had paper crowns. Alayne was not used to this kind of pageantry but enjoyed the sight, it made the people and the rocky wasteland brighter. She sat in her dark cloak, her hood was up as always. Hands together, rubbing over the tops of her fingers to try and stay warm. It was windy at times and she would have to hold her hood down. The archery event was proving interesting whenever the winds came up. Making some shooters nearly miss the target altogether. Lord Robert was holding on to Alayne's arm closely, he was trying to keep warm against her. Lord Baelish to her other side, he was paying close attention to the popular champions. He spotted the Northerners when she did, Sansa's heart skipped a beat in excitement. She beat it down with all of her might, as Lord Baelish asked who the Champion of Winterfell was.

"I can't tell from here," Sansa spoke quietly, "His face is covered so I'm not sure at all."

"Peculiar." Lord Baelish whispered, he grinned as he watched the Winterfell Champion nearly make a bullseye in this wind. Many politely applauded, as did Alayne. Lord Baelish whispered in her ear, "They know he's from the North so it's likely he will not be popular among this crowd."

Alayne said nothing, clapped as the next man struck the target. She sighed, it was tearing her up inside. She wanted to cheer for the North, for her family's banner men. She saw a few faces she recognized milling around the yard earlier, she spied a smartly dressed Podrick. Still shiny in his gifted cloak, she smiled gently. She stared at the Winterfell Champion and wondered why she couldn't remember a man so large before. He stood tall, he had a bit of a bad leg but most strange of all was he had a headdress covering his face and hair.

Lord Robert tugged at her arm and whispered, "Who is your Champion? He's awfully big."

Alayne with her finger bopped Lord Robert's greasy nose and sung back, "A great warrior from the North. He's so secret, no one past the Neck knows who he is." Sansa wove a story for Sweetrobin, he was listening to her with his full attention. Weaving a story about a knight is a subject Sansa knew much about. She told him he could fight a wolf with his bare hands, he saved families from burning houses, that the Champion of Winterfell helped the common folk. She smiled softly and giggled as Sweetrobin did.

"A people's knight?" Sweetrobin squeaked, "I want to meet him."

"Maybe after." Alayne replied, her face changing as they watched the rest of the shooters.

The time went quick, Lord Robert spent most of their midday meal talking about the champions that have been knocked out of contention and those surprise victories in the field. Alayne smiled and laughed along with him, inside Sansa was unravelling, her bannermen within arms reach and yet so felt so much guilt. Brienne was not with her. Brienne was in a dreaded skycell. Brienne deserved her freedom too. Sansa's heart wretched but Alayne smiled sweetly and ate her lunch without a care in the world. If only she could separate physically and climb the stairs to the skycells above. Fly like a real bird and not the talking bird, little bird, she was. Funny she would think of her long abandoned nickname. He gave it to me, he was right to call me such, I really was just reacting in tune with those with power over me. _I would show him my blackened heart._

The last heat was coming up for the day, there were so many. This one featured the Vale's favorite knight, Ser Harry Hardyng. Tall, blonde, handsome as he was scandalous. Sansa paid no mind to the knight, she knew them to be liars and actors on a stage that was the court. What did Alayne think of him? Maybe she would like him, what would it matter since she was a bastard. Albeit a powerful bastard. As they settled into their seats, Lord Baelish leaned into Alayne.

"The blonde knight, Ser Harry..." Lord Baelish licked into her ear, "When the lordling of the Eyrie dies, he will be the successor of House Arryn. My plan was to have you marry him as my daughter but I would rather keep you to myself now." and with that he squeezed her wrist. It was not violent and Sansa could not tear away, to make a scene with so many nobles around would be unexplainable. Even if the threat was made plain to them, they would not side with a wife of so many houses nor a bastard. Lord Baelish slithered his hand to interlace with Alayne's and he pulled it into his lap. Sansa pulling on it as he rubbed the back of her hand with his fingers. Small circles on her skin felt as if he was grating into her tendons and bone. His actions were not severe, this in fact something a father would do with his daughter's hand but it still punched Sansa's heart. A bile churning in her throat, she sat and endured it. Innocent on the outside, dangerous on the inside.

The shooting was about to begin, Sansa could see the Champions along the shooting line take their marks. Along the railing, many warriors and knights stood to watch the last heat of the day, including the Winterfell Champion. She watched him closely, not sure if she knew any house that had such a giant warrior. Maybe her fib was real, he was an unknown soldier, saving the Northerners from harm, she wished he would save her too.

Lord Baelish pulled his cloak over their gripped hands. "My sweetling daughter, your hand is freezing." he purred, "I'll keep it warm for you." Lord Baelish slid her hand down his leg, she sat up and tried not to scream. Alayne wore an expression of intense spectating but Sansa was tearing her own lungs apart. It would seem with a quick glance, that was what the rest of the lords and ladies were doing, watching the Vale favorite shoot circles around the competition. Lord Baelish led the back of her hand against him, he started to push her hand harder into himself. He was stiff, clearing his throat for a moment as he leaned to whisper into her ear. At that moment, Ser Harry shot a bullseye into his target and the crowd stood to applaud. Alayne ripped her hand from Lord Baelish and started to shout and clap with the crowd. She looked especially enthusiastic. As everyone sat, she was the last to sit. She grabbed Lord Robert's hand and lauded how the tournament was becoming an exciting one. The lordling looked displeased.

"I... I highly dislike him." Lord Robert whispered to Alayne, "He wants to be Lord of the Vale, he will take my title, my family honor." he was especially angry in his delivery.

Not wanting to continue the conversation with either men, she tried to look engrossed in the event. Archery was not her favorite of the arena events, what she was most looking forward to was the joust. She thought back to the time she saw many great knights jousted at the tourney of the Hand. She saw Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Loras Tyrell, even the Hound and the Mountain that Rides. As the arrows flew past, she thought of Ser Loras and his brilliant silver and gold armor with flourishing flora decorating the chest and shoulders. Finer than a dress Queen Cersei would wear, he was picturesque as he strode in for the semi-final against the Mountain. He rode by the platform and handed her the fullest red rose and bowed his head. Sansa folded her hand over the other, thinking about when she took the rose in hand. He had removed all the thorns, a gentleman to the end. She remembered how he unseated the Mountain from his horse and how angry he was. Sansa was young and had never seen men so angry they would kill. The blood spraying from the horse's neck as the Mountain severed its head, he came for Ser Loras. He was interrupted by the Hound who was standing just behind her, guarding the King and Queen of the realm. It felt like ages ago, she was not so young anymore. Over the years, she thought about the knights she had encountered and more and more she felt as the Hound did, what use was a knight for if not for killing. They used to beat her with clubs and the flat of their swords, they named them, they were family honored treasures, but they were still weapons that killed.

The arrows struck and in the crowd clapped and cheered, Alayne cheered too. It was no surprised Harry made it to the finals, Sansa did not care. She wanted to retire to her chambers and cocoon into a ball of blankets. Lord Robert grabbed her hand and pulled her down the platform steps to the field. His knights just trailing him as he ran toward the Winterfell Champion. Alayne let go of the lordling and watched him cross the field. She approached quietly, hearing the lordling faun over the man. She then heard a familiar voice, it was Podrick stuttering about the Champion's vow of silence. He was sweating profusely, losing edge on his words.  _Oh no._ Alayne stepped quickly and spoke just behind Lord Robert, "Lord Robert, the Stark champion is a Karstark bastard. His name is Canin." she hooked his arm, "And if you keep gawking at the warrior, people around him might feel you have an issue with the pious man." Alayne looked the warrior in the face as best she could, it was covered in a silk scarf.

"He's just as big as Lothor. Maybe even bigger!" Lord Robert astonished by the sheer size of the warrior, "I would hire him just to see him throw bad men from the moon door!"

Lord Robert's voice broke, "Well maybe he will rank high enough that you can make him a Winged Knight." Alayne conspired openly, "He can stand next to Ser Lothor."

The words were rolling off her tongue, slathered in lies but they sounded like the truth. That is how you dance around the powerful and impulsive lords and ladies of any court, Sansa wanted to gag. As the lordling gawked on, Alayne stole another look at the eyes of the silent man. Giant, muscled incredibly, steely grey eyes, Sansa nearly let one of her brows knit in confusion. She felt his energy through them, these eyes seemed so familiar. They reminded her of someone, was it Arya? She had grey eyes too. Her lips just opened as she was trying to connect the thread from her eye to her memory.

"You are very well versed in your champions, my lady." Podrick bowed, "May I ask what the maiden's name is?"

Remembering she was not as high born to expect this courtesy, "This maiden's name is Alayne Stone." she curtsied somewhat exaggeratedly, "Good day, sers." She turned Lord Robert by the crook of her elbow and started back to the keep. She pushed a thread of loose hair over her ear and thought about those eyes. Did she dare to look back, at the very least she needed to know if Podrick heard her straight. She was a bastard, maybe she could pretend to fall in love with Podrick and run off with the squire. At least he would do it to help her and nothing else. He was always good hearted. Alayne drew a breath and looked just over her shoulder and saw the pair staring back. Podrick gave her a deep nod, the other was still, never moving but staring at her. His eyes familiar but confused, at least to her she thought they seemed confused.

Night drew into the valley, dinner was uneventful and drab. The cooks were readying themselves for the first winner's feast the next night so many of the high lords and ladies took their meals in their common rooms and personal solars. Alayne bided her time, talking with the young Lord Robert and exchanging looks from other knights. Many who could never look her in the face but rather past her neck. She sighed in grief of the good men that were it seemed, absent from this dinner. She excused herself and Lord Robert followed her.

"Alayne, would you read to me again? I do love when you read me stories." Lord Robert begged her.

"One chapter, one only. Meet me in my chamber and I will read to you." she felt generous, since the start of the tourney she felt she had the upper hand with the lordling over Littlefinger. In this one thing, at least she was positive she did.

In her chambers, Alayne stepped out of her dress and into a warm night gown. Creamy yellow and long, it had short sleeves with eyelet flowers on them. Alayne pulled her hair from the tight bun and braids, she started brushing her hair out, detangling all the stress it held. A faint knock on the door, it was Sweetrobin, in his sleeping shirt and night jacket. It was patterned with moons and stars, naive and childish the pattern was but it somehow suited his personality. Alayne smiled, she made her way to the bed and laid on top of the blanket, soon joined by the lordling he smiled and snuggled close on her bosom. She reached and grabbed a book, as she cracked the pages open and began to read the words softly in a soothing voice there was a second knock on the door.

"Oh no." Sweetrobin whispered, "I wasn't supposed to leave my chambers. They've come to collect me too soon."

"Robin," Alayne scolded under her breath, "Go hide in the wardrobe." she giggled as they leapt to the large cabinet structure, she let him inside and he sat with his knees in his chest. She closed the door when a man barged into her chambers.

"Excuse me," turning she saw someone she did not expect nor wanted to have invade her chambers, "Lord Baelish. What can I do for you this evening?" her jaw tight with anger.

"I have the letter to release Brienne, I can send it tomorrow morning and your knight might just make it for the next event." he taunted her, "Of course, I don't have to send these orders right away..."

"You want something in return..." Sansa's voice dropped low, her eyes darkened.

Littlefinger grinned, his eyes sparkled but they were never happy. A kind of madness behind the glossy exterior, rotten to the core. He stepped closer to Sansa, she stepped back, "You will watch yourself around me."

"Sansa, my love. Can't you see everything I do is for us." Littlefinger tried to touch her arm, she pulled back and stepped around the bed. Trying to put something between them.

"Don't touch me. Don't you ever touch me." her eyes reddening, yet no tears. A sheen of sweat down her back, fear was raking her bones.

"I don't want to keep you from your knight or your people but I do want you with me when I take the Iron Throne. We're meant to be together, you and I." he spoke into the dead air, "All I ask is a kiss, one you give me like a lover would. Try and love me Sansa, for that is all I feel for you." he moved close to her and pinned her against the wall, pushing his leg between hers. He forced his lips on hers, she turned her head but he let his lips drag down her neck. Sansa was shielding herself, trying to push back with her forearms.

"No, stop... Get. Away. From. Me." returning each word more sternly, they stayed against the wall for a time. Littlefinger unable to advance, Sansa unable to push him off fully.

"Ha. Well then I guess I can rip this letter..." Littlefinger letting go of Sansa, he had a folded letter with his seal of a mockingbird. His fingers placed obviously as if he was going to rip it in half. Sansa stopped him with a hand over his hands. "Will you accept me now sweet Sansa?"

Sansa stared at the letter and then glanced back at him. Her eyes were steely but her expression was that of sadness. She lowered her hand and so did Lord Baelish. She looked away, what could Alayne say to avoid this? She shivered and he noticed, searching for a weak spot. She remembered he was regretful or at least playing it when he was informed of Ramsay's pervasive nature. Sansa let the tears flow, everything that had happened at Winterfell was nightmarish but she was going to visit those scars, one last time. "You remind me of Ramsay." she shivered, a waver in her voice. No need to sell her emotions, they were all real, "And I can't comply to your whims of lover's kisses because I am not in love with anyone." a twitch just above her brow as she slid down the wall. She didn't need to look at Littlefinger to hear him back off.

"I just wanted one kiss." he was on his last leg, begging her. His voice was painted with high notes of regret.

She looked at him, he was looking with the same look many lustful men give her. She knew what they wanted, she knew if she gave one to him he would see it as power over her. She knew the implication of letting his ego grow, tonight she managed to keep him at bay. A caveat that could cost her dearly, she wished so much she never left King's Landing. _I'd have rather died with Margaery than be here with him... with them all._ What strength can I muster, perhaps that of a bastard...

Sansa hung her head but it was Alayne who stood. She advanced on to Lord Baelish, her finger touching his chin and gave a quick peck on his lips. Alayne's eyes glistening with a stranger's tears, her face was blank and unnatural. She felt as if she kissed a stone gargoyle. Littlefinger smiled, he left without a word. There was a long pause, Alayne having faded from her face, Sansa began to sob loudly. Not sure if she sacrificed for Brienne or caved to pressure and showed weakness. The game was becoming too hard on Sansa, she never wanted this life. As she cried, she heard a creak, jolting up her eyes met Sweetrobin. He was sobbing too. Running to her, he hugged Sansa. She cried into his back and he into her shoulder. He shook her, not sure what he saw.

"Uncle Petyr is a liar, he's craven and a liar!" Sweetrobin shouted through his tears, "I ordered him to send that letter this morning. They said, my knights said she was already on her way down. I wanted to tell you myself, I wanted to tell you. I did it."

Sansa hugged Sweetrobin, "I know he's a liar but he controls you and the Vale. Harrenhal, the neck. He's still allied with the crown. How can I win against him, he's always a step ahead of me."

"I can stop him, I can do it." Sweetrobin shaking Sansa, he stared right into her face. She felt he was being true, like a puppy he was unwavering in his commitment to love.

They held each other for a time, neither wanting to leave until the other stopped sobbing. Eventually, the tears ran dry and they were comforted by the fire light and human touch. He lay in her lap, his eyes toward the fire. Sansa rubbed her fingertips in a petting fashion on Sweetrobin's head. He sighed and sat up on his knees. He gave Sansa a kiss on the cheek and said, "Tomorrow morning, very early Brienne should be down the mountain. Tomorrow, I'm going to hold your hand and never leave you alone lest you want to be."

He stood up, less so a boy and more a resolved man. He helped Sansa stand, her legs weak from sitting on the hard floor. Lord Robert finally looked less helpless. He had color in his cheeks. As he left, he urged her to lock the door. Sansa pegged the metal locks at the top and bottom of the door. It would mean her chamber maids locked out but worth the sense of security.

It was a difficult night, she felt as if the door would fling open again with macabre demons clawing at her legs and arms. Their talons scratching and drawing blood, red blossoms on their hands, pervasive in nature and digging into her skin. She woke harshly in a flop sweat, shaking and breathless. Drawing air into her lungs, it was cold and it sharply poked her lungs with pain. She touched her legs and arms, their were no cuts or bruises like how she was attacked in her nightmare. If Brienne was getting to the Gates of the Moon, she was going to greet her and never let her go. Jumping out of bed, she dressed and dashed out of her chamber. As she moved down the tower and into the yard, it was just coming to life. A few laundresses passed her, she said her good mornings and smiled. It was especially windy in the morning, the valley splitting and redirecting the winds, mussing up her hair. She hadn't brushed it or pinned it up but she did not care. She let the wind mess it up, tangling and detangling. She made a turn out of the back gate that faced the trail from the way castles. She was startled to find a large man staring at the tower. He was looking high up the building, recognizing him as the Champion of Winterfell. She had to know who he was, who was representing her and the North.

She walked up towards him, his gaze unbroken. He jumped a bit and stepped back from her, Alayne jested, "Scared of a little lady as myself, ser? Or are you dreaming of becoming a high lord of the Vale?"

Alayne spied his eyes, he was confused again but very nervous. A great gust of wind nearly pulled her cloak from her grip, as it made her hair dance. Her hair fell and he was unmoved, he just stood there and never replied. She was getting a bit angry, she knew he was none of the things Podrick blurted out the day previous. She edged her words, "I don't know who you are but you are here with my brother's men. Why won't you acknowledge me? Surely you must know."

He was struggling to communicate with her. _Strange man._  He looked at Alayne and spoke as softly as a knife over a whetstone, "And you never will if you stay stuck here."

Alayne's smile faded quickly, she studied him. She looked him straight in the face like a dog would, trying to connect something familiar to him. His voice was especially something from a summer dream, maybe a summer nightmare. Green lights and a dark voice, scraping the walls and making long every shadow. Sansa was unsure but the familiarity was there but just as she was managing an attachment, the man turned to leave. Alayne perturbed by his curtness was going to follow him but she was interrupted by a voice from yonder.

A man on a horse was coming towards them, this convoy of horsemen would have Brienne of Tarth. She was slumped over her horse, still holding the reins she nearly fell off her saddle. Alayne ran out to the horsemen and her knight, worry etched on her face. The Champion of Winterfell running right behind her. As they reached the horses, Brienne was mumbling. It was inaudible but it seemed like she had important news. Nevermind any of that, Brienne need a maester fast.

"Oh please, pick her up Ser Canin." Sansa cried, warm tears fell from her cheeks.

Canin picked up Brienne, she watched him limp slightly but he managed to carry her through to her chambers. Alayne ran ahead of the man, she threw back the sheets on her bed and the Champion laid her down with care. Alayne threw her cloak on to a chair and brought a candle closer to Brienne's face. Malnourished, thirsty and weak looking Alayne gasped. She pulled linens and a salve, she handed the linen to Canin. Her hand ran right past his forefinger and the underside of his thumb, bluntly past the scars on his hands, they were so rough and yet she saw gentleness. 

"Please ser, if you could rip some bandages." Alayne kindly asked as she tried to rouse Brienne awake. Mumbling Brienne grabbed her hand. Sansa's face was fraught with sadness, wanting to hear Brienne speak to her.

"Why are we still here? We could just leave, you and the knight." he rasped over each word with urgency, "What are we waiting for?"

Alayne was taken back, he was blunt and cruel. No one had spoken to her so directly, not even the Boltons. She straighten up and spat back at him, "In front of them I will call you Canin to protect you and the rest of my brother's men but you will tell me your name. Your true name, ser."

"What is a name if there is freedom to take, you wanted out of here didn't you or was the letter not a lie." Canin spoke freely, "It's that easy."

"Brienne is ill and unable to move," Alayne fiercely she leaned into it, "And I am not here to insult the Vale and have them knocking on the North's door. Bloodying the snows of Winterfell. Until she can stand and until I can leave without raising the ire of the Lord Robert, I might have to play this game until I can walk out of the Bloody Gate as myself. And so, you know who I am, who are you?"

Sansa was upset, she wanted to slap him. Alayne stood with her steely eyes locked on to his grey ones. As they stared, a chamber maid and a white haired Vale maester came walking in, the maid had a large basin of steaming water and the maester a cabinet of medicine. They both rose from hanging over the maid knight, she heard him scoff and walked out of the room. Alayne called to him, "Wait!"

Alayne greeted the maester and quickly ran after Canin. She found it odd that he would have the gull to speak to her so harshly, so direct. It plagued her mind, she heard this directness before. Alayne hurried down the tower, she just glimpsed his shoulder exiting the doorway. They were in the yard when she managed to sprint and grab his arm. How could his words make her be so angry even after he pulled her knight into the tower. She was annoyed but grateful. He barely turned toward Alayne.

"Say what you want." his voice rocky and sharp.

"Thank you anyway," she was shaking, "We argued but I am still thankful, ser."

"Don't call me ser." he turned back and walked away.

Alayne watched his massive back shrink smaller and smaller until he turned into the corridor into the tower. A swirl of thoughts in her mind but it all led back to one instance, a few days after the bread riots she was well enough to walk again. She walked through the Red Keep that day, looking around the halls and walking slow. She was wearing dusty rose and her hair loosely let down. She remembered because she hadn't the bother to put it up like the other Southron ladies. About to give up her search, she turned and there was the Hound walking down the hall. She walked as she would always, each step questioning her courage to say something, anything. When she finally did, to thank him as a good lady would say, he threw it all back in her face. Not just because he was mean but because he knew Sansa was saying it out of social obligation and not because she meant it in the words I chose. _I would say it again to him, I was truly grateful._

Alayne turned and walked back to the tower, as she came up to her chamber door she saw Lord Robert inside speaking with the maester. He smiled at her and Sansa was glad she made a new ally in the game of games.

 


	10. Sansa VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne and Brienne reconnect as Brienne starts to gain her strength back. Lord Robert grows up a bit in light of what they experienced together.
> 
> During the first winners feast, Alayne encounters Harry who reveals he knows a secret of hers. She escapes the party and finds another familiar whom she would rather spend the rest of the evening with during a late night stroll to the outside arena.

The archery final was suspenseful but in all, highly predictable. Before leaving Brienne by herself, she asked Lord Robert for a dagger to leave with  her knight. He gave her his own, a straight stiletto with a silver handle encrusted white gems throughout the hilt. Brienne weakly took the blade and held the handle as she feel into slumber. Lord Robert also left two knights who were from House Royce to protect the door. As they descended on to the final, Alayne sat straight and stiff. To the court, it looked as if she was watching with great concentration but inside Sansa was fearful for Brienne's safety. Lord Robert observed this and linked Alayne's arm this time.

"This match is one for the books," he acted, "My money is on Lothor still."

Alayne smiled meekly, she turned back and the match went off. Harry shot near perfect, he had great aim and sight to aim with. Many in the stands yelled falcon over and over. Alayne cheered wildly to Lord Robert's behest. She sat back down and squeezed his hand with a look. Lord Robert's knight and a knight of Harrenhal, Lothor Brune took second place. Alayne was relieved to see Canin take third, Winterfell was being represented well. She politely clapped as they took their last stands before breaking for the rest of the morning. The afternoon would pull up the first round of sword fighting. Pits would form and watching was not necessary since there were so many fighters to round up and out. This gave a chance for Alayne, nay Sansa to reconnect with Brienne. To watch her, for once she will play the protector.

Before splitting up, Lord Robert held Alayne's hand, "I won't be far. Lord Royce is taking me to the fighting pits to observe. He thinks I will get better if I just watch. The champions from Archery are automatically put through. Brienne, too. If she can..." he paused staring deeply into Alayne's face, "Someday, I will swing the sword that saves us both."

Alayne stood flabbergasted, he walked off and caught up with the massive Lord Royce. He gave a nod towards Alayne and she curtsied. She believed that might be the most grown statement Sweetrobin has ever made. She started to walk toward the keep, so many people were still about. Enjoying the sights, there were more minstrels and jugglers around lanes of tents and food stands. A few caught up at the gate finally made their way in time for the swords event. Looking at all the people, Alayne felt a tinge of pride. Walking among them as commoners she thought she could just leave with a band of them, become an actor, leave the name Stark behind. The thought was fun to fantasize but it past as she left the lane of sweet and savoury smells, laughter and merry making behind. Alayne picked up her skirts and made her way into the yard and up the tower steps to a quiet chamber at the end of the hall. The two knights greeted her and opened the door, Alayne walked in and saw Brienne already up and eating.

"Gods," Brienne was eating a stew, she looked far better than she did that morning. "Your hair. What did you do to your hair, my lady?"

"My hair, oh..." Sansa shrugged, "It's a disguise Brienne. One I have worn before. Do you remember in the roadside inn. You saw me there, I had dyed hair then too."

Brienne nodded and gave a shaky half smile. Sansa sat across from her as she continued to eat, "I am pretending to be a bastard daughter to Lord Baelish. When you leave this room, I am Alayne to you and no one else." she explained as her voice hushed.

Brienne paused her spoon and sat up, "No, Lady Sansa..." trying to find words to comfort her.

Sansa laid a hand over hers, "In the inn, that is who I was. It's safer this way, for now." Brienne turned her hand and folded her fingers over and held Sansa's hand. "Anyway, I have some news for you."

Sansa explained the men from the North were here, already devising plans to spring them from the grips of Littlefinger. She told her about their champion, his false name she bestowed on him, and lastly what had happened last night. Brienne held tight her hand, a few tears streamed down Sansa's face again.

Brienne drew close, on her knee she held her hand with both of hers, "Never do as he says. Never compromise for me. I am ready to die for you, as I promised. If you can leave without me, do it." Gallant, true to her words and her loyalty was fierce, Sansa and draped her arms around Brienne's broad shoulders. Brienne held her closely, "I swore to protect you, I will do so even if there is no sword in my hand."

"Sword!" Sansa yelped, "Tomorrow, if you are feeling fit enough to you can battle the knights of the Vale in my honor." Brienne gave a confused by intrigued look, a brow hooked high. Sansa sat back up on her chair and Brienne followed suit, "Lord Robert wants to see you battle Lothor, his favourite knight. He made it so you advance to the semi-finals against the best of the Vale. I said you can do it if you felt well enough... do you feel well enough?"

"I, well... what about the Winterfell Champion?" Brienne questioned with a hint of excitement, "And that Hardyng knight I hear rumours about, has he been advanced too?"

"Yes, they all ranked high in archery so they are automatically placed in. Today, they are whittling down the rest of the fighters in fighting rings. Tonight there is the first winners feast for archery. I will be attending, Winterfell came in third so our banner men will be there."

"I should be well enough to go, I have to keep you safe. It is my duty." Brienne stood, she was a bit shaky but still stronger than most, "I have this dagger and I can keep it concealed on my person-"

"I will be fine, no one would be fool enough to attack me at a feast. I'm just a bastard to them." Sansa interrupted as she shifted in her seat, "Just rest up, I need you strong for the swords event." Sansa touched Brienne's arm. Brienne nodded, agreeing with Sansa.

"As your were then... Alayne." trying it on for size. She went looking for a chamber maid, itching for a hot bath and new small clothes.

Sansa stood as she watched her leave. Worry and anxiety stitching permanent lines into her temple and eyes Sansa wanted to tell her more somehow, of what she was not certain. She locked the door fully and began the arduous task of readying herself, dressing in a fine garment and painting her face, masking all her intentions. Sansa brushed out her hair and noticed the dye was giving way near the crown of her head. Displeased, she would have to groom her hair up to cover it up. She hadn't done anything so elegant since King Joffrey's wedding and it would stress her scalp but what could she do with no extra dye. Sansa used a set of hair pins gifted to her by the Lady Corbray. They were long silver prongs, thin and slender with a small solid silver bird or moon at the top. Sansa twisted and pulled her hair into curls and fixed them down the back of her head, finishing them with a braid holding them onto her scalp like a bouquet of flowers. In all, she had ten silver pins in her hair. She matched them to her dress, a silver and blue dress. It was in the fashion of Vale dresses, long sleeves like a bird and a fitted bodice. The neckline was what Sansa liked, unlike some other dresses this one had a halter and voids on the shoulders. She pulled a silver link belt to break up the rather stale dress and donned a white chiffon scarf over her voided shoulders.

A last look in the mirror, she looked like a lady of the Vale. Sighing, Sansa missed her wintery dresses and direwolves. Bulky and uncouth as the Southron court would believe, they were stressless and comfortable. The garment was not as important as the person inside it. Sansa looked in the mirror and searched for Alayne, she changed her expression from homesick to jubilant. Alayne is of the Vale and a heralded great of the Vale placed first, Harry Hardyng.

Alayne arrived to the feast late, Lord Robert saw her and motioned for her to join him. Lord Baelish was already milling around, tossing out as many courtesies as there are hairs on his head. She was seated beside Lord Robert who was excited to tell her of the other fighters who made the cut. They spoke for a while, Alayne ate between smiles and quips. The feast was luscious; milk braised turkeys, honeyed hams garnished with rosemary potatoes and parsnips. Loaves of brown rye, peppered jellies and butter. Sweet peas and bowls of custard cremes. Lastly, large cakes of every color and flavor, lemon included among them. Alayne eyed the crowd as Lord Robert told her a few other Vale knights made the cut but the event was brutal. A few houses packing up and leaving because their champion had been injured to follow into the joust. Alayne acted surprised, as Sansa would have too.

The Champions of Archery arrived, the room cheered and hooted. Harry waving and soaking in the accolades from other houses. Lothor was steadfast, still spoke little and waved just once. Canin walked in and simply raised one hand, panned the crowd and walked away. He quickly sat at the table the Northerners were eating at. They did not give him a plate of food, Sansa thought it strange. She spied them, it would seem he was not going to remove his headdress to eat or to drink. Podrick was leaning into him, talking, whispering something. Sansa wanted to just walk over and ask them when and where to be to leave with them. Podrick quickly glance her way, Alayne turned and served herself another slice of bread.

Soon the night moved on and the minstrels played louder, the servants moved the tables in the middle of the hall to make way for people to dance. Harry was asking many high born ladies for a dance. Alayne observed the girls, they bent at the knee slightly and touched their collarbones, laughing, smiling, some bold enough to press their chests up at the knight. A few picked and pulled at their dresses as the knights came up. Alayne watched and rolled her eyes. She thought about the last time someone made her flustered as such, was it Ser Loras? Always gallant and kind but never quite on the right side of the pond. Perhaps not him. Surely Sansa had felt it before, digging through memory like a pile of laundry she thought about the men she had encountered. So many were by violent ends, the kingsguard, the Boltons, even Joffrey's intention laid clear the day he raised a crossbow to her in the throne room. Lord Tyrion wasn't always the monster he was branded, the Hound even more so. Sansa swam just behind Alayne as she was served a slice of marbled cake. She stared at it, half white and half brown. The Hound was harsh with his words but he was well meaning in his own way, he loathed social standards. Always sneering down on their mannerisms, calling them false. It was truer than Sansa could describe, the courtesies she once believed correct way to lead oneself was just people acting polite. Many did not mean their courtesy, just like Lord Baelish peck the backs of hands of ladies and lords of the Vale. They loved it and ate it all up, pompously puffing their chests up.

 _Why think about the Hound now?_ Sansa was usually flustered around him, not because she was vying for his attention but because he never veiled himself to her. His speech nearly never filtered, only when there were others around. She recalled a time in the Red Keep, he was there in the hall requesting a song. Sansa had not liked to lie but found herself trying it on in front of him. He figured her out so quickly, she had blushed as he touched her arm. Remembering her reactions, Alayne put a fork into the cake, scraped a piece and ate it. Chewing over the scenery, she thought about his words, a King's dog. _Not anymore..._ Mulling over the bittersweet tones in her mouth, thats what his words were to Sansa now. She was getting lost in her thoughts about a long forgotten man, at least she thought he was long gone. Something in the way Canin said 'ser' that made Sansa's heart skip a beat, it was familiar to her. The cake was nearly gone as she finished the last of it, thinking about wanting something else as sweet as this cake, she sighed looking at her empty plate.

Alayne excused herself for a moment to get some fresh air. Her head filling with so many ideas, her forehead felt hot as she held her memories of the Hound for too long. She glided into the yard, it was a clear sky as she stared at the bright moon and stars. Alayne hitched her skirt up as she wandered into the centre of the yard, it was ghostly as the moon light bounced off the steel scattered around her. Bucklers, helms, swords, a few arrow tips, the strangest collection of shape and form making a beautifully arranged portrait of abstraction with her at the middle. She spun around to see the shapes, half circles, oblique ovals, misshapen squares, lines with hard corners and then some with never ending curves. It was a bit chill but it reminded her of Winterfell. It was in that moment as she spun that she saw a figure break the pattern, she stopped and saw Canin with a long sword in hand. He let the tip fall down and nearly touch the ground, she saw the glinting line of moon light highlighting it from afar. She stared at him, a long silence passed.

Canin turned and walked out of the yard, toward the front of the keep. Alayne ran after him, it was a chance to really know who he was. To make firm his identity, she wanted to know, Sansa was aching to know. She ran after him, he was striding away, it seemed anywhere was well enough as she saw he aimed for the arena. Alayne didn't say a word, she just followed him, stepping lightly, it felt like a dream. He turned behind the far stands on the other side of the newly made fighting ring. Alayne followed him still, as she turned behind the large stands he grabbed her and lay a hand over her mouth.

"Don't scream," he rasped, "Why are you following me? Someone could've followed you."

Alayne waited a moment, his hand peel away from her mouth, she was breathing hard. Streams of heated air clouded up just before her. His other hand still laid on her waist, it was warm and massive. She gulped and turned around to look at the Champion of Winterfell. The moon was providing light enough to see his eyes from one side, she saw the curves and divots that she knew well in dim light. She raised a hand to pull the front of the headdress off, he flinched for a moment but allowed her to take the cloth from his face, it almost seemed like he was relieved to not be so secretive with her. As she pulled the fold that was over his nose and mouth, the scarf was giving way to reveal more skin and hair. Dark hair with streams of sun bleached browns, skin pocked and scarred by fire and heat, rivers of fissure along one side of his face, lit unmistakably by the moon. Sansa soften and let her hand run down the scars, he didn't move, he closed his eyes as the fabric fell away.

Soundless, Sansa was without any words to give to Sandor at least not yet. Her heart leapt out of her chest as she smiled with gentle grace. Both hands running down his face like summer rain. His hands were hovering and never grasping at her hands and wrists, just barely touching her. Breaking gaze, his head hung into his chest she just about started crying. Sansa finally found words enough to say, "You seemed so familiar and yet I was not going to let myself down easy if it wasn't you."

Sansa still touching his face, held her hand cupped on his cheek. He scarcely looked at her, turning his head away. Sansa felt distraught, "Why won't you look at me, why won't you touch me?"

"I can't." Sandor forced through his teeth, "You look an imposter. It's hard to stare you in the face."

"What is so different? I have only dyed my hair." Sansa pleaded with him, "It is just a disguise. It is just an alias." she gripped his forearms, trying hard to duck under him to look him in his eyes.

Sandor straightened up and Sansa responded, she was still holding on to him as he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. Examining her, Sansa stared at his eyes crawl over her face. He pulled his head close to hers, his body in need of telling her a secret.

"You kept my secrets, I yelled at you and you still sympathized," Sandor held her head in his massive hands, "I could've lived the rest of my life killing, drinking, never bending the knee to anyone..." If he wanted, Sandor could easily choke the life out of Sansa but she knew he would never even think of such a thought. His eyes were glossy, Sansa's heart raced as he struggled to form his thoughts aloud.

"Sandor, I always-" Sansa softly spoke, gasps of emotion between each word. Sandor slipped his fingers up Sansa's neck, he fondled the hairpins in her hair and slowly released one and then another. They dropped to the frost bitten grass, each pin letting loose a large tightly bound curl down her back. The unfurling of hair sent a shiver up Sansa's back.

"I would have happily lived my life as a second son, no wife, no children, no land, just the blood of my enemies staining my cloak," he pulled her scarf down past her waist, letting it drop. "But you, interfering with your stares, your manners, you who would touch me out of compassion, listening to my nightmares..." he hitched a breath, he pushed the burned side of his face into her hand. She felt each ripple from the scars, the flesh was hard and bent under her palm.

Sansa let loose a few tears, "I missed you dearly. I know how your heart aches. I-"

"I would have lived and died, never knowing I could have or want more. Simple and stupid. And you, you..." His breathing was ragged, hitched often as he pulled away the last of her hair pins, Sansa pulled herself closer into his body. His hand on the middle of her back, he pulled her up to his face, their lips met loaded with the words never thought before. Told through action and touch. Sansa flung her arms around Sandor's neck, deepening the kiss. The moon shone down and she felt as if the Gods were watching.

Their lips sent off electric sparks in her mind, it was a longing she was hoping to know and be familiar with. His lips were divided, half man, half hound, hungry for more and careful of her constitution. They're lips moving, parting and connecting all at once was lustful and dominating any thought she had. His hands gripped her tighter as he fell to his knees, Sansa's knees fell over Sandor's leg, she straddled it with her skirts flowing around her. Sandor slipped his tongue into her mouth as she lapped and sucked to taste his being. Her supple lips ran over his rough mouth, loosening her voice she moaned into him. Sighing beautifully as they finally parted. She looked straight at him, his eyes were warmer, still grey but hot with passion. They seared into Sansa, her hair tossed into wrecked curls, he leaned his forehead down on hers.

"I care for you too." Sansa whispered, she closed her eyes and nuzzled his face. She let her cheek grace his burned side, slowly feeling each imperfection.

Sandor held her, they stay quite close for a long time. He smelled of earth and leather, it reminded her of home. The gates of Winterfell opened to the soldiers sparring swords, the great hall and its large communal tables, stone corridors lit with torches and adorned with historic tapestry, the way Stark men wore boiled leather all year, it was rushing back to her. She felt a happiness in her heart she hadn't felt in so long. It felt as if the future would start to mend itself.

A dark cloud moved past the moon, the wind picked up and played its hollow noises, Sansa opens her eyes and finds the Vale once again. She was Alayne and although no one would tell her to unhand this man as she was a bastard, she knew they would have to part soon. That the moment was over.

Sandor and Alayne stood, she picked up her scarf and pins and Sandor redressed his head gear. Alayne watched as he spun the silk scarf around he head a few times. Canin stood before her, head fully covered, he stuck out his arm for the lady. Alayne took it and they both walked back to the castle. As they approached the yard, Alayne let go of Canin's arm. She said her goodnights and threw her scarf at Canin's face.

"My favor is for you, Champion." Alayne stated playfully, "Wear it in my honor."

She turned into the tower and smiled again having satisfied her craving.

 


	11. Sandor V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the end of the archery event, Sandor is plagued by emotions about whether he wants to attend the winner's feast. He reluctantly attends and is met with a very fateful meeting with Alayne Stone.

The last arrows of the final were loaded as it was a shoot off between three competitors; Canin the Champion of Winterfell, Ser Lothor Brune of Harrenhal, and the Young Falcon Ser Harry Hardyng of the Vale. All stood in silence, staring down the field as a few men moved the target a few yards further. As they cleared, another man lifted a safety flag to let the shooters know they could take their turns at the target.

Sandor was a wreck, he had snapped at the little bird when all he wanted to do was leave with her and the Tarth maid she loves so well. Canin shot and his arrow was just left of centre, probably not enough to take second but enough to take third. They were only shooting for rank and purse, Sandor had no ambition to take any money as much as he needed the invite to the banquet. Lothor shot his arrow next, he made it even closed than Canin, slicing some of his tail feathers as it hit the target. He shot Canin a look of pride, behind the veil Sandor smirked. The last to shoot was the Vale favorite, Ser Harry. His shot was dead centre, the crowd cheered loudly for his win. There was no need to shot again, not with aim like that. Canin looked out at the stands and saw a risen Alayne, applauding loudly for the falcon. He scoffed, battling between the truths and if she meant what she did as Alayne. Paranoia settling deep in his lungs he tore away as they awarded the placements on the field. Harry waved to the people, they gave him a wreath of flowers to which is laid in the lap of a high born elderly woman who laughed.

The stands were emptying and Sandor needed to regroup with the Northerners. He had yet to let them know Brienne was out of the skycells of the Eyrie. He rushed back to the common quarters and was met with Tormund drinking with some of the men. Tormund looked a bit tipsy, possibly a bit depressed knowing he could not save Brienne himself.

"Where is the squire?" Sandor threw off his quiver and bow to the side.

"Finding enough fine clothes for the men, they all need to be dressed well if they want to attend the banquet." Tormund drank, he was not enthused about attending a banquet.

Sandor sighed and pulled off his headdress, "You should know your Tarth maid is off the mountain."

Tormund stood and dropped his horn of ale, "Tell it true holy man." he shook Sandor's shoulders hard but Sandor brushed off his hands and told him that he helped her into the tower. That she had come down from the Eyrie. Tormund was shocked, he sat in disbelief. "Why didn't they just leave with you?"

"No provocation. The Lady Sansa did not want to start a war with the Vale." he replied as he griped over each word.

"Well, its true." a voice said behind Sandor, it was the squire Podrick, "The North couldn't deal with another war so soon after the taking of Winterfell." he stood with one arm full of clothing and the other with a plate of hot food placing it all on the table. "We need to leave with them and without raising the ire of the high borns here. The Vale is very prideful, maybe more so than I would've guessed." Podrick pushed the plate of food to Sandor, "Better eat now, while there's time." he started throwing doublets to the men. Taking the road heavy clothes off, Podrick had also made a deal with the laundresses to have them all cleaned tonight. "Best eat in your chambers, the ladies will be here any minute." as he gave out the last of the silks, he turned back to Sandor, "I apologize in advance, unfortunately we might just have to clean up your leather jerkin as there was nothing big enough to fit you."

"I wish I had this problem," Tormund commented as he pulled at his borrowed clothes, "I'd rather be naked than wear this."

"It's not all bad, I'll still be in my boiled leather." Podrick added. Sandor was not so sure that was a downside as Podrick's leather was perfectly blood red and handsomely ringed in gold and studded too.

Sandor picked up the plate and replied, "I'm used to it." he exited the ruckus of men changing clothes and into the solidarity of his room.

The sun fell behind the castle wall again, just as it did the night before and Sandor sat with his head hung low between his shoulders. He reviewed himself, how could he let something so petty cloud his concentration. He was sure she could make a good guess about his identity. It was so clear in his voice when he retorted at her meek little whims. He rubbed his knuckles, it did not bother him that she said she was grateful as much as he could not take her gratefulness. Acceptance was something the septon preached, he said it was difficult for soldiers to do, to see it when it happens to them, how it makes them feel so guilty. Sandor stood thinking about the times he spat in others faces, words of gratitude never reciprocated with acceptance. They are just words of kindness, her words. Perhaps he only felt guilty now because she was someone he shared more than a few blunt words with. She was not afraid of him but was he afraid of her?

A sharp rapping at the door, "We are leaving to the banquet now," it was Tormund, "The squire thinks you should show up later, after they stop bringing food out. I don't think it matters. I just want someone to talk to." he laughed as he turned to leave. Sandor could hear footsteps and rowdiness die down as there was a latch of the door.

In all that noise, Sandor had forgotten to tell Podrick to speak to Sansa. Too afraid to muck it up, he sighed heavily. Maybe he won't even attend, he placed third and no one from the Vale would care if he even showed. Would they? Sandor hoped not. He sat for a bit longer, the sun nearly extinguished, his mind was mulling over his few choices. He thought about her applauding Hardyng again, she got up and cheered so hard for the Vale champion. It's conflict, she probably wants to cheer for the Northerners but she can't, not while her hair is set black and she parades around pretending to be a bastard daughter. She had applauded him before, could that not be enough for his selfish mind. He had saved the flower knight from his own brother's wrath, he could've made the swings longer and maybe taken something off his brother but he never struck him fatally. Some days, Sandor wished he had and met the justice of the King. Just to end the suffering. The kingdom would never know Gregor's evils, they would just keep on assuming his knightly status. Conflict, Sandor sighed maybe it is better the common folk know about his evils.

Reluctant to do anything he mustered himself to eat, he pulled on a clean shirt, folded and spun the silk around his head again and picked up a rag and brush. He cleaned his boiled leather as best as he could and brushed his boots to shine. He was thankful he didn't own any bracers or sabatons, he didn't have to polish them shiny. He walked into the empty common room and saw a pan of water. He washed his hands profusely, brushing at his nails and getting the grime out of the deep cracks in his skin. He examined the worn skin, the scars, maybe too many scars in Sandor's opinion. Cleaning up, he took a deep breath and exited to the great hall.

The walls and tables were decorated in silver and blues, honouring House Arryn with many bird and moon motifs adorning the ceiling drapes and tapestries. Even the minstrels invited had the same colouring scheme, porcelain vases with inlaid silver with white lilies accompanied by the darkest green leaves made the room's aroma sweet. Upon his entry, there was friendly clapping and a few cheers. Canin waved slightly and moved away from the centre of the room.

Canin stood in dark browns and blacks, like a spectre of death he walked in awkwardly. This particular point of dress was not far from Sandor's mind but it did not bother him much, other than a few other knights and Podrick who was dress in his gold and blood red leather mail, it would seem the rest of the high borns were fluttering set pieces of an elaborate stage scene. It made Sandor a bit nervous, he wish very much he could drink if it wasn't for Canin's horrid headdressing, he would heavily. Podrick made his way over to Canin, he nodded in the direction the rest of the Northerners were sitting. The end of the hall, although a slight against the third ranked archer in their event, better than being in the thick of it all.

He sat down with the rest of them, Canin leaned over to Podrick and whispered, "When Alayne Stone comes out, why don't you make contact with her. I don't want to be made conspicuous."

Podrick flatly smiled and nodded, "Yes... lord Canin." nearly forgetting they were in public. He would need to keep addressing Sandor as Canin, as a lord. Somehow it made it seem like he was less like Sandor, bettering his disguise. Sandor just looked at Podrick with judgement, Podrick shrugged his shoulders. What else could he do.

The men drank and ate, the food was splendid looking with plenty of bread and ale about. Wine shipped in from Gods knows where, and of course a long table of sweet cakes and honeyed fruits. Sandor watched the men, he watched everyone in the hall, merriment and yet none of it was from him, he contributed nothing emotionally to the atmosphere. His eyes ran around the room; a few lords clinking cups, ladies giggling and pecking at their food probably watching their waists, hard looking men never speaking to each other, minstrels trying to drink and play their fill, every banquet was the same and Sandor just wanted to leave. Would anyone notice if he did?

The thought was coming up more and more as Sandor sat watching everyone, many patting his back and complimenting his performance. Many Vale knights had never really interacted with Northern soldiers before, the table was becoming more merry and it stressed Sandor a bit. He was being courteous and yet he was very cold, he was lucky Podrick was around to continue weaving the tale Alayne wrote for him. They couldn't believe a man as big as Canin was pious and mute, Sandor sighed and nodded along. Just as he was about to leave, he saw Alayne through the crowd. It was still a shock to see her with dark hair and dark features. Alayne was especially looking lovely, a white and blue gown similar to many of the high born ladies in the room. Her hair spun into black roses on her head, at least that's what it looked like to Sandor. Her face was fuller somehow, from the last time he saw her in King's Landing, many things were about her. She was years older. He tried not to stare, not with so many people milling around him. Sandor was feeling the pull, a weight on his heart and shoulders, he needed to leave. He stood and exited quickly and quietly through to the yard.

In the yard, he breathed more deeply. Inhale and exhale, rhythmic, he saw fog form in front of him. He closed his eyes as he let the cold air hit his lungs. Almost like he was being choked of his life, banquets were not where he felt normal. He walked a few paces and sat on a stack of crates. He stared up the walls, lit up by the moon, it was so big and bright this evening Sandor nary thought it felt like the sun but the sun brings warmth and it was chilly that night. He scanned the yard, no one in sight, just a few night guards passing. He spied the sparring swords, he thought about his leg and whether the weight and swings of fighting would push him back in a realm he knew a lot about. He stood and walked over to the weapon rack, picked up the longest sword. It was not longer than his old long sword, then again many swords are short to him. He swung it up into the air, examining the length, Sandor then slashed the air. Silent but the sound of blade cutting air, he cut up into the air and then back down, a two handed stab, a ground up wheel into the sky. He juggled the sword hilt from one position to the next. Sandor was still skilled with a sword, it would be a fluke for him to rank so low in the next event.

As he practiced his hand placement, he heard a noise and stepped back close to the wall. He was in the long shadow of a spear rack and a stack of narrow crates. He stood there and waited and watched as a young maiden walk into the yard. It was Alayne, hitching her skirts off the ground she spun around looking at the messy yard, full of armor bits and weapons. Sandor walked out quietly back to the same spot he threw the blade around and waited, she spun until stopping, staring at Canin. He let his sword tip fall while staring back. Just the sight of her was heart wrenching, Sandor was unsure of his emotions, he just knew he had them when he looked at her. Turning, he dropped the sword and made for the main gate. He heard her steps behind him, picking up the pace he walked further out to the arena, hoping she would take a hint. She did not. Keeping up with him, walking and then running. Sandor took a quick turn around the rafters of the far end of the arena, she walked right past him as he grabbed her and lay a hand over her mouth.

"Don't scream," Sandor rasped, "Why are you following me? Someone could've followed you."

She was still under his grip, he slowly pulled his hand away from her and she turned around to meet his eyes. The moon was shining down on her face, lighting up the curves and glinting off the silver accents on her dress and in her hair. Alayne was present but her eyes were Sansa, she studied him and kept her eyes fixed on his gaze. Glowing like a star she raised her hand to Sandor's headdress, he nearly flinched but let her pull the cloth, one fold at a time. It lost grip on his head and came falling down like leaves from a tree. She gasped, silence, was she sad to know it was him? Sandor stared at her and broke gaze, he looked down, hanging his head. Was she even happy to see him? Did she even remember him at all? Second guessing was not something he was used to, he disliked the act but was victim to it every time. She ran her hands down his face, over his scars and through his nerves. Sandor wanted to touch her but it was not for him to do so, it would be deemed inappropriate.

Sansa spoke softly, "You seemed so familiar and yet I was not going to let myself down easy if it wasn't you."

Sansa still touching his face, held her hand cupped on his cheek. He scarcely looked at her, turning his head away. Sansa felt distraught, "Why won't you look at me, why won't you touch me?"

"I can't." Sandor forced through his teeth, "You look an imposter. It's hard to stare you in the face." The hair color was the worst to Sandor, it confused him and made him sadder knowing it was because her life depended on a clever disguise.

"What is so different? I have only dyed my hair." Sansa pleaded with him, "It is just a disguise. It is just an alias." she gripped his forearms, trying hard to duck under him to look him in his eyes. Sandor turned his head back and forth. He knew there would be a confrontation but he didn't want it like this.

Sansa was struggling with him, he didn't want to be so cowardly so he looked her straight in the face. Somehow, the image was not her but he was engaged with the sight of her. It was not her hair, the Vale dress was certainly not her, he didn't even like the way she painted her face like them. He needed to tell her how she made him feel. He pulled her close so he wouldn't lose her gaze, a touch desperately needed, his head was nearly touching hers.

"You kept my secrets, I yelled at you and you still sympathized," Sandor said gruffly, "I could've lived the rest of my life killing, drinking, never bending the knee to anyone..." he let his hands run around her smooth neck.

"Sandor, I always-" Sansa gasping. Sandor let his hand travel to the back of her head, grasping at her hair. He felt the smooth silver pins and started pulling them out. Looking for something that was Sansa, each pin let loose a reminder that she doesn't need these frivolities with him. Her hair fell down her back and over his hands, he could see some of the coppers burning through the black. Sansa hitched a breath, arching her back and shivering.

"I would have happily lived my life as a second son, no wife, no children, no land, just the blood of my enemies staining my cloak," he pulled her scarf down past her waist, letting it drop. "But you, interfering with your stares, your manners, you who would touch me out of compassion, listening to my nightmares..." her hand trembling on his burned flesh, he pushed the side of his face into her. Her fingertips electrifying the skin, warming it.

Sansa was teary, "I missed you dearly. I know how your heart aches. I-"

"I would have lived and died, never knowing I could have or want more. Simple and stupid. And you, you..." He was breathing hard as he pulled Sansa closer into his body, the last of her pins dropping to the ground. His hand on the middle of her back, he pulled her up to his face putting his words into actions. She flung her arms around his neck, deepening their embrace. The moon highlighted her best features, it made her skin glow.

Her hand ran up through his hair, mussing and massaging his hair. He could taste the summer in her mouth, she pushed into him and he pushed back. He gripped her tightly as he fell to his knees, she straddled Sandor's leg with every muscle bulging under and over her. Feeling brave, he invaded past her lips and she invited more of him, pulling her essence from her beautiful mouth. She moaned for him. Sighing beautifully as they finally parted. Sansa's eyes filled with desire, it took everything to push back the notion to take her in the arena, he leaned his forehead down on her.

"I care for you too." Sansa whispered as she nuzzled his face.

He didn't want her to leave, he didn't want the moment to pass too quickly. Being as still and soundless as possible, he could hear her breathing deeply. She was smelling his skin, touching him firmly, her warmth fading back into her body, the moment was fleeting and dissipating. He would have to let her go back to her cage and then wrap his head and go back to his. He looked down at the pins in the grass, little birds strewn about and all Sandor wanted was to go back and try and save her again.

Sandor and Alayne stood, she picked up her scarf and pins and Sandor redressed his head gear. She watched as he spun the silk scarf around he head a few times. Soon, Canin stood before her, head fully covered, he stuck out his arm for the lady. Alayne took it and they both walked back to the castle. As they approached the yard, Alayne let go of Canin's arm. She said her goodnights and threw her scarf at Canin's face.

"My favor is for you, Champion." Alayne stated playfully, "Wear it in my honor."

Sandor felt his face twitch, he smirked and watched Alayne run back to the tower. Her hair messy and tossing about behind her, watching her hair sway about. He took the scarf by both ends and pulled it around his neck, he walked back to the other gate and headed back to the common quarters. He fell into slumber, everything had already felt like a dream so slumber was not a difficult step to walk into.

The sun was lighting up the sky brilliant navy blues and yellows, Sandor lay in his bed with his arm behind his head, his hand was fisted and inside was Sansa's favor. He was thinking about the moonlight yesterevening and wondered if what had transpired was real. He pulled his arm back and looked at her favor, still soft and glittery. Sandor took in a lungful and let the waves of her essence wash over him, leaving a lay of hands on his face. Intoxicated, carnally needing her scent on his nose, he took another breath in trying to remember exactly the way she tasted. He let out a low hum, eyes closed and gripping the fabric tight, Sandor's muscles tensed, it was almost like he could feel her fingertips running circles in his hair.

A few soft clangs from out the window crept into the room and Sandor opened his eyes again. The sound of steel against steel, glancing and swiping the air. The event was swords and it would be grueling. He was already pulled into the top fighters but it would mean there was no room for mistakes, he would have to built momentum fast. He sat up and dressed and wrapped his head, he started to strategize. _Win the first round quickly, take your time with the rest._ Sandor picked up his sword belt and strapped it on with purpose.

Canin appeared in the common room, Podrick was polishing his shield. Tormund was back in his banner man doublet, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Another day, another slay?" Tormund patted his back. He roused the other banner man as they exited the common room. Stark banners flying high.

In the room, Podrick handed some bread and cheese to Sandor. Sandor ripped the bread piece in half and started to feed himself under his silks. Podrick turned to him, "You ready for this next one? I have been studying the fighters, hopefully you go up a few that I can tell you their weaknesses..."

Sandor looked back at the squire as he was chewing the hard cheese. He gave Podrick a look of doubt, "It will be a cold day in hell before you out smart me on the battlefield." Sandor walked over to the table and poured out a cup of wine. As he drank, Podrick gave a grunt of disbelief as he looked to the ground.

He looked Sandor in the face and for a brief moment he smiled, "You say that now, you only mean to hurt me but just you wait." He picked up Canin's helmet and shield and ran out the door. Confidence pulsating through the young man. Sandor smirked as he followed suit.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Writer Notes:**
> 
>   1. I wanted to cut down my editing and "fussing about" period to as little as possible. I figured if I finished a chapter, I would only edit for a maximum 3 days and then post it. I started this fic on the Aug 21st.
>   2. After writing that first SanSan fic, I reminded myself of a few stories. I started going over those books and quotes to get better POV material to work with.
>   3. As with my other fic, I tried very hard not to incorporate modern language slang and words into the writing. I tried very hard to replace and pull them, if a few got through I apologize.
>   4. I purposely did not describe the facial details of Sandor and Sansa. I find everyone has their own version they think of and I'd rather you keep that idea in your mind and I will build around it.
> 

> 
> **References (as specific as I can remember, will be updated as chapters are posted):**
> 
>   1. I was heavily influenced by Charles Frazier's "Cold Mountain", I lifted the incident with Sarah for the first Sandor chapter. It was pure practice and if you have read the book and thought it familiar, congrats! You're a champ.
>   2. "Revealed themselves one star at a time" is a lyric line lifted from a song "Bobcaygeon" by The Tragically Hip.
>   3. "Dangerous tug" is a lyric line lifted from a song "Gift Shop" by The Tragically Hip.
>   4. "Silver Road" is a song by Sarah Harmer.
> 

> 
> Updates to continue as I post more chapters.


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